HAZARD 


SERVICE 


WILLIAM 
GILMORE 

B  EYMER 


[bee  page  229 


IT    WAS    A    COMRADE    FROM    HIS    OWN    CLD    REGIMENT 


ON 
HAZARDOUS  SERVICE 

SCOUTS    AND    SPIES 
OF  THE  NORTH  AND  SOUTH 


BY 
WILLIAM    GILMORE    BEYMER 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
HOWARD  PYLE  AND  OTHERS 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


COPYRIGHT,  isia.  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 

PUBLISHED   OCTOBER.    1912 

.  F-O 


TO 
MY     MOTHER 

FIRST     GUIDE     OF     MY      PEN 

AND  TO 
MY     WIFE 

BY   WHOSE    HELP   THIS    BOOK   HAS 
BEEN     BETTERED    IN    EVERY    LINE 


525G64 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PREFACE ix 

I.  ROWAND i 

II.  "WILLIAMS,  C.S.A." 36 

III.  Miss  VAN  LEW 64 

IV.  YOUNG 100 

V.  BOWIE 133 

VI.  THE  PHILLIPSES— FATHER  AND  SON 152 

VII.  MRS.  GREENHOW 179 

VIII.  LANDEGON 211 

IX.  JOHN  BEALL,  PRIVATEERSMAN 239 

X.  TIMOTHY  WEBSTER:  SPY 259 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

IT  WAS  A  COMRADE  FROM  HIS  OWN  OLD  REGIMENT     ....  Frontispiece 

ROWAND   IN   HIS  CONFEDERATE   UNIFORM Facing  p.       6 

A  LONELY   DUEL   IN   THE   MIDDLE   OF   A   GREAT,    SUNNY   FIELD    .  12 

THE   MIDNIGHT   COURT-MARTIAL 5° 

MISS   VAN  LEW 64 

THE   SECRET   ROOM 84 

MISS   VAN  LEW'S  CIPHER  CODE Pa&        $7 

HARRY   YOUNG Facing  p.  IOO 

JOHN   Y.    PHILLIPS          J52 

MRS.    GREENHOW   AND   HER   DAUGHTER l8o 

MRS.  GREENHOW   AND  THE  TWO  OTHER  PASSENGERS  DEMANDED 

THAT    THEY   BE   SET   ASHORE 2°8 

"  WRITE   OUT  A  MEMORIAL   OF   YOUR   COWARDICE   AND  TREACH 
ERY,"   HE   THUNDERED 24& 

TIMOTHY   WEBSTER 2^° 


PREFACE 

IN  undertaking  the  preparation  of  the  following 
chapters,  which  were  first  published  in  Harper's  Maga 
zine  and  in  Harper's  Weekly,  it  was  not  expected  that 
serious  difficulty  would  be  met  with  to  obtain  the  data. 
Nevertheless,  the  articles  were  written  only  at  the  cost 
of  the  most  unforeseen  effort  and  nearly  three  years' 
time.  Hundreds  of  letters  were  written  to  persons  in 
almost  every  State  in  the  Union,  and  in  the  Philippine 
Islands,  Canada,  France,  England,  Gibraltar.  Frequent 
trips  became  necessary  to  Washington  and  Richmond, 
also  to  Chicago,  Boston,  Pittsburgh,  etc.  A  bibliography 
of  the  books,  newspapers,  and  pamphlets  consulted  would 
show  a  list  of  hundreds  of  volumes.  No  expenditure  of 
time,  effort,  or  money  has  been  spared,  not  only  in  col 
lecting  all  the  data  obtainable  for  each  of  the  subjects, 
but  also  in  verifying  it — where  not  absolutely  impossible 
— to  the  smallest  detail.  The  following  chapters  are 
in  every  sense  historical. 

The  original  plan  for  obtaining  data  was  to  secure 
permission  to  examine  the  original  records  in  the  War 
Department,  of  the  Bureau  of  National  Police  and  the 
Secret  Service.  To  this  request  President  Wm.  H. 
Taft,  who  was  then  Secretary  of  War,  replied,  through  the 
Adjutant-General  of  the  Army,  that  "all  such  documents 
that  are  of  any  historical  interest  or  value,  and  which  are 

ix 


PREFACE 

in  the  possession  of  the  War  Department,  have  been 
published  in  the  Official  Records  of  the  Union  and  Confederate 
Armies."  But  though  the  Official  Records  approximate 
139,000  pages,  very  little  is  to  be  found  regarding  the 
work  of  individual  members  of  the  Secret  Service.  The 
very  nature  of  the  work  made  the  keeping  of  written 
records  an  additional  and  unnecessary  hazard  to  the 
men.  In  an  effort  to  discover  the  whereabouts  of  some 
of  the  men  and  women  who  served  the  North  and  the 
South  as  scouts  and  spies  I  went  to  Washington.  Few 
members  of  the  Secret  Service  were  alive  when  these 
chapters  were  begun.  Of  the  ten  stories  that  follow  only 
three  are  personal  narratives — "Rowand,"  "Phillips," 
and  "Landegon" — and  John  Landegon  died  last  year. 

Every  assistance  possible  was  given  me  in  Washington 
by  Col.  Gilbert  C.  Kniffen,  of  the  Bureau  of  Pensions; 
W.  H.  Crook,  of  the  White  House  police  ever  since 
President  Lincoln 's  time;  Maj.  Albert  E.  H.  Johnson, 
for  years  the  private  secretary  to  Secretary  of  War 
Stanton;  Major  Sylvester,  of  the  Metropolitan  Police; 
Chief  John  E.  Wilkie,  of  the  present  Secret  Service  (not 
organized  till  1869),  and  Gen.  Michael  V.  Sheridan.  Only 
by  the  guidance,  assistance,  and  advice  of  Maj. -Gen. 
F.  C.  Ainsworth  (retired),  then  Adjutant-General  of  the 
Army  and  one  of  the  compilers  of  the  Official  Records, 
have  several  of  these  chapters  been  made  possible. 

For  the  "Bowie"  chapter  I  am  indebted  to  Col.  John 
S.  Mosby,  who,  when  he  had  told  me  all  he  could  of 
"Wat"  Bowie,  gave  me  introductions  to  two  members 
of  his  old  band  of  partisans,  Dr.  Jas.  G.  Wiltshire  and  Mr- 
Chas.  Vest,  who  were  with  Lieutenant  Bowie  on  his  last 
raid, 


PREFACE 

But  the  actual  starting-point  of  the  series  was  the  second 
chapter,  "Rowand."  The  late  Judge  Julius  J.  C.  Lang- 
bein,  Commander-in-chief  of  the  Medal  of  Honor  Legion 
in  1905,  referred  me  to  Gen.  St.  Clair  A.  Mulholland's  The 
Military  Order  of  the  Congress  Medal  of  Honor  Legion  of 
the  United  States,  which  contained  a  brief  record  of  Mr. 
Rowand's  services.  Interviews  with  Mr.  Rowand  in  Pitts 
burgh,  Pennsylvania,  resulted  from  this  discovery,  and 
from  the  publication  of  his  story  two  other  chapters 
grew.  Mrs.  Eleanor  Vinton  Blake,  having  read  "Row 
and,"  offered  me  the  letters,  papers,  and  portraits  of  her 
brother,  Col.  H.  H.  Young.  Mr.  John  J.  Stanton, 
editor  of  the  Sussex  (New  Jersey)  Independent,  obtained 
for  me  Capt.  Theodore  F.  Northrop 's  invitation  to  visit 
at  his  home,  that  I  might  write  of  the  services  of  his  guest 
and  fellow-scout,  John  Landegon. 

To  Capt.  Luis  F.  Emilio  I  am  indebted  for  much  in 
formation,  especially  in  the  "Williams"  and  the  "Green- 
how"  chapters;  no  less  for  his  courtesy  in  placing  his 
fine  Civil  War  library  at  my  disposal. 

In  connection  with  the  "Williams"  matter  I  am  under 
obligation  to  Capt.  Robert  E.  Lee  not  alone  for  informa 
tion,  but  for  delightful  hospitality  at  his  home  in  Virginia, 
and  for  the  introduction  to  Mr.  Custis  P.  Upshur,  from 
whom  I  obtained  letters  and  papers  of  Colonel  Williams's. 

Former  Secretary  of  the  Interior  Jas.  R.  Garfield  and 
Maj.-Gen.  William  H.  Carter  supplied  links  in  the  chain 
of  evidence. 

Miss  Susie  Gentry,  of  Franklin,  Tennessee,  aided  me 
greatly  not  only  in  the  "Williams"  case,  but  also  in  the 
story  of  Captain  Beall. 

Likewise,  for  assistance,  I  must  thank  Mr.  R.  A.  Brock, 

xi 


PREFACE 

editor  of  the  Southern  Historical  Society  Papers;  Mr.  S.  A. 
Cunningham,  editor  of  the  Confederate  Veteran;  Miss 
Mary  Hilliard  Hinton,  editor  of  the  North  Carolina 
Booklet,  and  Mr.  F.  H.  Smith,  secretary  of  the  Maury 
County  [Tennessee]  Historical  Society. 

Much  of  the  data  for  the  chapter  on  "Mrs.  Greenhow" 
came  from  her  daughter,  the  late  Mrs.  Rose  Greenhow 
Duvall,  and  her  granddaughter,  Mrs.  Louis  Marie.  As 
sistance  also  of  great  value  was  given  by  Mrs.  Richard 
Price,  Secretary  of  the  United  Daughters  of  the  Con 
federacy,  Cape  Fear  Chapter  No.  3,  at  Wilmington, 
North  Carolina;  Mrs.  Caroline  Phillips  Myers,  of  Savan 
nah,  Georgia;  Mrs.  Constance  Cary  Harrison  (whose 
husband  was  private  secretary  to  Jefferson  Davis) ;  Hon. 
Geo.  B.  McClellan  of  Princeton,  N.  J.,  and  Mr.  Wor- 
thington  C.  Ford,  editor  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical 
Society. 

Miss  Van  Lew's  executor,  Mr.  John  Phillips  Reynolds, 
of  Boston,  turned  over  to  me  all  of  her  diaries,  manuscripts, 
"l  and  letters,  without  which  the  chapter  never  could  have 
been  written,  and  assisted  me  in  every  manner  in  his  power. 
To  Miss  Van  Lew's  neighbor,  Mr.  J.  Staunton  Moore, 
I  am  grateful  for  kindly  hospitality,  information,  and 
much  helpful  criticism  of  my  manuscript.  Also  from 
Dr.  Wm.  H.  Parker,  her  physician,  and  when  I  met  him 
occupant  of  the  old  Van  Lew  mansion,  have  I  had  much 
help. 

Except  for  Mr.  Peter  N.  Johnston,  of  the  old  Astor 
Library,  I  would  never  have  met  "Charlie"  Phillips. 

Mr.  Isaac  Markens  generously  turned  over  to  me 
the  results  of  his  long-continued  researches  into  John 
Beall's  life  and  history. 

xii 


PREFACE 

From  Mr.  William  A.  Pinkerton,  whose  father,  Allan 
Pinkerton,  established  the  Federal  Secret  Service,  there 
came  the  data  which  made  possible  the  writing  of 
1 '  Timothy  Webster :  Spy. ' ' 

This  preface  would  be  incomplete  without  a  word  of 
appreciation  for  the  courtesy  and  indispensable  aid  from 
the  librarians  and  their  assistants  at  the  Carnegie  In 
stitute,  Pittsburgh,  Pennsylvania;  the  Library  of  Congress, 
Washington,  D.  C.,  and  in  New  York  City  the  New 
York  Historical  Society,  the  library  of  Columbia  Uni 
versity,  the  Mercantile  Library  Association,  the  Society, 
and  the  New  York  Public  Libraries.  My  thanks  are 
especially  due  to  the  late  A.  Noel  Blakeman,  Recorder 
of  the  New  York  Commandery  of  the  Military  Order  of  the 
Loyal  Legion,  by  whose  advice  and  help  I  was  enabled 
to  make  the  best  use  of  the  Legion's  unsurpassed  collec 
tion  of  reference  works.  Through  Mr.  F.  A.  Nast  I  owe 
to  Mr.  A.  T.  Gurlitz  the  privilege  of  admission  to  the 
Legion's  library. 

To  the  many  whose  names  I  have  already  mentioned, 
and  to  the  many  more  for  whom  individual  mention  is 
impossible,  in  General  Sheridan's  words,  "I  tender  my 
gratitude." 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 


ON   HAZARDOUS   SERVICE 

ROWAND 

To  Major  H.  H.  Young,  of  my  staff,  chief  of  scouts,  and  the  thirty 
or  forty  men  of  his  command,  who  took  their  lives  in  their  hands, 
cheerfully  going  wherever  ordered,  to  obtain  that  great  essential 
of  success,  information,  I  tender  my  gratitude.  Ten  of  these  men 
were  lost. — From  Gen.  Philip  H.  Sheridan's  report  of  the  expedition 
from  Winchester  to  Petersburg,  Virginia.  February  2J — March  28, 
1865.  Official  Records,  Vol.  46:  I:  481. 

1 ' THIRTY  or  forty  men,  of  whom  ten  were  lost."  It  was 
not  chance  which  worded  that  phrase.  Sheridan  has 
chosen  his  words  well.  Of  the  ten,  no  one  of  them  died  as 
do  men  in  battles;  two  were  found  by  their  comrades 
hanging  by  their  own  halter-straps ;  several  more  died  like 
trapped  animals,  fighting  desperately,  at  bay.  And  the 
others — never  returned.  Until  the  Great  Book  opens  it 
will  never  be  known  where,  or  how,  they  died;  they  never 
returned,  that  is  all.  Of  the  ten,  not  a  man  was  wearing 
the  uniform  of  the  country  for  which  he  died. 

How  many  more  went  down  in  the  remaining  twelve 
days  of  the  war  I  do  not  know ;  those  twelve  savage  days 
that  saw  Five  Forks  and  Sailor's  Creek,  Dinwiddie  Court 
House,  Deep  Creek,  Farmville,  and  Appomattox  Station 
and  the  Court  House ;  those  days  when  the  scouts  worked 
night  and  day,  and  were  in  their  own  lines  only  long 
enough  to  give  "information." 
i  i 


:QN  ^HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

To-day,  of  all  that  brave  band  to  whom  Philip  Henry 
Sheridan  tendered  his  gratitude,  there  remain  but  four 
— Sergeant  McCabe,  "Sonny"  Chrisman,  Jack  Riley, 
and  Rowand.  This  is  the  story,  in  part,  of  Archie  Row- 
and— "Barefoot "  Rowand  of  "the  Valley,"  one  of  the  two 
scouts  for  whom  Sheridan  himself  asked  that  greatest 
distinction  the  nation  can  give  a  soldier — the  little  bronze 
star  on  whose  reverse  is  read: 

"The  Congress — to — Archibald  H.  Rowand,  Jr. — FOR 
VALOR." 

When  the  dusk  of  the  winter  day  had  fallen,  and  we  had 
thrown  away  our  cigars,  when  the  story — such  a  small 
part  of  which  I  may  retell  here — was  done,  I  asked  two 
questions : 

' '  Should  war  come  now,  would  there  be  found  men  who 
could  do  as  you  have  done?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  the  answer  came  grimly,  "if  they 
begin  as  young  as  I  began,  and  have  no  better  sense." 

And,  "Why  did  you  ever  begin?" 

"It  was  as  I  told  you — Company  K  had  been  on  de 
tached  service — scout  duty — for  some  time.  When  the 
company  was  drawn  up  in  line,  and  the  captain  called 
for  volunteers  for  'extra  dangerous  duty,'  I  looked  at 
Ike  Harris  and  Ike  looked  at  me,  and  then  we  both  stepped 
forward.  They  took  us  to  headquarters  and  gave  us  two 
rebel  uniforms — and  we  wished  we  had  not  come." 

"But  why  did  you  volunteer?" 

He  peered  at  me  over  his  glasses.  ' ' I  don't  know !  We 
were  boys — wanted  to  know  what  was  the  'extra  dan 
gerous  duty,'  and" — chuckling  to  himself  at  a  hidden 
recollection — "when  we  found  out  we  hadn't  the  face  to 
back  down."  And  that's  how  it  all  began. 


ROWAND 

This,  you  must  know,  is  not  the  story  of  a  spy,  but, 
gray  clothes  and  all,  of  a  scout!  The  point  was  rather 
insisted  upon. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  what  I  would  say  is  the  difference 
between  a  scout  and  a  spy :  The  regular  spy  was  a  man  who 
generally  remained  inside  the  enemy's  lines,  and  was  not 
supposed  to  fight  except  in  self-defense.  [And,  let  me 
add,  was  usually  a  civilian.]  We  scouts  were  men  who 
dressed  in  the  enemy's  uniform  in  order  to  deceive  their 
pickets  and  capture  them  so  that  the  main  body  could 
be  surprised.  Or,  we  would  ride  up  to  a  Southern  citizen, 
man  or  woman,  for  information,  and  since  we  were  dressed 
in  the  Confederate  uniform  they  would  tell  us  everything 
they  knew.  Of  course,  under  strict  military  law,  we  were 
subject  to  the  penalty  of  spies  if  taken  within  the  enemy's 
lines." 

It  was  in  the  fall  of  '62  that  Rowand  and  Ike  Harris 
had  looked  into  one  another's  eyes,,  discovered  that  they 
were  of  one  mind,  and  had  stepped  forward — into  the 
gray  uniform.  Since  July  iyth  of  that  year  Rowand  had 
been  with  Company  K  of  the  First  West  Virginia  Cavalry, 
under  General  Milroy.  He  had  come  to  the  cavalry 
from  a  Pennsylvania  infantry  regiment,  which — he  all 
but  whispered  it,  lest  Disgrace  should  find  him  out — 
was  "not  much  better  than  a  home  guard,"  and  where 
"the  musket  was  too  heavy  to  tote."  But  the  cavalry 
just  suited  him,  and  in  the  rough  scouting  through  rug 
ged  West  Virginia  he  grew  from  the  stoop-shouldered, 
cough-racked  railroad  clerk  into  the  tireless  young  dare 
devil  who  would  volunteer  for  extra  dangerous  duty  just 
to  see  what  was  extra  dangerous  about  it. 

"It  was  exciting,"  he  said. 

3 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

It  must  have  been!  With  each  day  of  service  in  the 
ranks  of  the  scouts  danger  became  more  imminent;  the 
chances  increased  of  meeting  again  some  party  of  Con 
federates  with  whom  previous  lies  and  explanations  would 
not  tally  with  present  movements.  Also,  in  the  Federal 
army  there  were  sure  to  be  Southern  spies  whose  business 
it  was  to  report  descriptions  of  the  scouts,  and,  if  possible, 
their  movements ;  within  the  Confederate  lines  recognition 
because  of  these  descriptions  might  take  place  at  any 
moment.  That  meant  death  by  the  noose,  or,  at  best, 
to  be  shot  down  in  a  last-stand  fight.  Rowand  tells  how 
a  man  rode  into  their  lines  at  Salem  and  claimed  to  be  one 
of  Averell's  scouts.  He  was  recognized  as  being  a  par 
ticularly  dangerous  Confederate  spy,  and  they  shot  him 
where  he  stood,  without  even  the  formality  of  a  drum 
head  court  martial. 

And  then  there  was  the  danger  of  meeting  death  at  the 
hands  of  their  own  men.  It  happened  not  once,  but 
many  times,  that,  discovered  and  hard  pressed  by  the 
enemy,  the  scouts  in  their  gray  uniforms  rode  for  their 
lives  for  the  safety  of  the  Union  lines,  only  to  be  met  by 
the  murderous  volley  of  their  own  mistaken  pickets. 
But  it  was  exciting ! 

As  compensation  they  had  freedom  and  privileges  be 
yond  those  of  any  men  in  the  army.  For  them  there  were 
no  camp  drudgeries,  no  guard  or  picket  duty;  their  cour 
age  and  their  duties  bought  them  immunity  from  camp 
discipline;  and  their  quarters,  where  they  all  lived  to 
gether,  were  the  best  that  could  be  obtained  in  the  field. 
Each  man  was  entitled  to  keep  four  horses — the  pick  of 
the  command.  In  their  scou tings  through  the  country 
side  they  lived  on  the  best  that  the  land  afforded;  in  those 

4 


ROWAND 

parts  nothing  was  too  good  for  the  "boys  in  gray,"  and 
the  gulled  Confederate  sympathizers  fed  them  like  wed 
ding-guests. 

Then  there  was  the  money,  good  gold — no  less.  They 
were  paid  in  proportion  to  the  value  of  the  information 
they  brought  in  and  the  services  they  performed ;  expense 
money  was  portioned  out  with  a  prodigal  hand  from  the 
Secret  Service  chest.  They  were  the  Aristocracy  of  the 
Army!  But  most  of  all  they  risked  their  necks  because 
it  was  exciting. 

Training  came  chiefly  from  dear-bought  experience, 
except  that  given  them  by  "Old  Clayton,"  one  of  the 
scouts  who  had  come  with  General  Fremont  from  the 
West.  He  conceived  a  great  fancy  for  "the  boys,"  and 
gave  them  a  deal  of  advice  and  instruction.  There  was 
one  thing  that  even  old  Clayton  could  not  give  Rowand 
— Ro wand's  command  of  the  Southern  manner  of  speech. 
The  years  spent  at  Greenville,  South  Carolina,  as  a  child 
of  from  two  to  seven,  stuck  the  speech  to  his  tongue — 
so  that  not  even  the  next  ten  years  in  Pittsburgh  could  en 
tirely  efface  the  mark  of  the  South,  and  now,  with  the  need, 
he  slipped  easily  back  into  the  tongue  that  seemed  to 
identify  him  with  the  gray;  it  was  too  obviously  unas- 
sumed  not  to  deceive.  To  this  Rowand  attributes  his 
great  success  as  a  scout. 

Courage,  too,  must  have  had  something  to  do  with  it ! 
It  was  Rowand  and  Ike  Harris  who  carried  General  Mil- 
roy's  despatches  to  Halltown,  West  Virginia.  They  were 
discovered  and  recognized  as  couriers  the  moment  they 
left  the  Union  lines,  and  a  rebel  battery  turned  its  entire 
fire  on  them  in  an  effort  to  check  the  message  known  to  be 
for  help;  theirs  was  a  wild  ride  under  the  bursting  shells. 

J 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

It  was  Rowand  who,  in  the  Winchester  battle  the  next 
week,  rode  General  Milroy's  wounded  and  hobbling  horse 
across  the  battle-field,  and  brought  back  the  great  white 
charger  of  the  General.  In  that  same  fierce  fight  the  man 
on  either  side  of  him  was  killed,  and  Ike,  poor  Ike  Harris 
— that  was  his  last  battle.  He  was  killed  soon  afterward. 
The  Confederates,  Lee's  advance,  brushed  aside  and  scat 
tered  Milroy's  little  command,  and  swept  on  unchecked 
till  rolled  back  from  the  high- water  mark  of  the  northern 
field  of  Gettysburg.  Rowand  was  back  in  his  regiment, 
but  Custer  needed  scouts,  and  Rowand  was  chosen. 
And  there  he  proved  that  he  possessed  the  great  quali 
fication  of  the  born  scout — the  illusive  seventh  sense.  He 
had  been  in  the  locality  but  once  before,  and  at  that  in 
the  confusion  of  a  fight  at  Piedmont  Station,  yet  he  es 
tablished  a  "V"  of  couriers  through  nineteen  miles  of  a 
country  cross-hatched  by  innumerable  byways,  and  re 
ported  them  placed  that  same  dark  night.  That  was  no 
small  achievement. 

But  it  was  in  "the  Valley"  (the  Shenandoah)  that  he 
felt  at  home,  and  he  was  glad  when  he  was  ordered  back 
there  to  report  to  General  Averell  in  the  fall. 

" Nothing  much  happened  to  me  that  winter,"  he  said. 
(I  wonder  what  really  did!)  "So  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
about  the  second  Salem  raid  in  the  next  spring. 

"To  begin  with,  I  hanged  a  man.  It  was  this  way: 
On  the  first  Salem  raid  a  citizen  named  Creigh  had,  with 
an  ax,  killed  a  Union  soldier  and  thrown  his  body  into 
a  well.  The  scouts  now  discovered  this ;  Creigh  was  cap 
tured,  tried  by  a  drumhead  court  martial,  and  sentenced 
to  be  hanged. 

"As  I  was  going  up  to  headquarters  the  next  morning 

6 


ROWAXD    IX    HIS   CONFEDERATE    UNIFORM 


ROWAND 

I  met  Captain  Jack  Crawford,  of  Averell's  staff,  who  said 
to  me,  'Rowand,  you  hang  the  prisoner.'  I  indignantly 
told  him  I  would  do  nothing  of  the  sort — I  hadn't  en 
listed  for  an  executioner.  It  was  the  General's  order, 
he  told  me  angrily;  and  of  course  that  settled  it.  I  sent 
a  couple  of  the  boys  for  some  rope  from  a  bed  (have  you 
ever  seen  the  beds  of  that  day? — with  an  interlacing  of 
rope  in  lieu  of  bed-springs),  and  put  the  rope  around  the 
prisoner's  neck,  tied  the  other  end  to  the  limb  of  a  tree, 
mounted  him  on  the  scout's  wagon,  and  drove  the  wagon 
from  under  him."  He  paused;  then,  more  slowly,  "I 
have  seen  civil  executions  since,  but  then  I  didn't  know 
enough  to  tie  the  hands  and  feet  of  the  condemned." 

I  hastened  to  break  the  silence.  "After  all,  it  was  the 
General's  order — you  could  only  obey."  I  spoke  in 
sympathy — if  I  could  see,  how  much  more  clear  would  the 
sight  be  to  the  eyes  that  had  really  seen! 

He  only  said:  "That  was  the  joke  of  it!  Averell  had 
never  mentioned  me;  it  was  Crawford's  job,  and  he 
foisted  it  off  on  me. 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  "I  was  captured  that  raid — for 
the  first  and  last  time.  Four  of  us  were  started  in  the 
late  afternoon,  about  dark,  to  get  through  Breckinridge's 
lines  and  bring  back  General  Duffle,  whose  brigade  had 
been  sent  to  go  around  Lynchburg.  We  did  not  know 
then  that  Hunter's  scouts  had  tried  to  get  through  and 
had  been  driven  back.  We  rode  for  some  hours,  and  then, 
about  half  past  ten,  spied  a  light  in  a  house;  we  rode  up 
and  asked  for  something  to  eat — offering  to  pay.  There 
was  a  woman  sitting  up  with  a  sick  child;  she  looked  at 
our  gray  uniforms;  then,  her  eyes  shining,  'Pay?'  she  said. 
'I  do  not  charge  our  boys  anything!'  The  other  two 

7 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

were  left  outside  to  watch;  Townsend  and  I  went  in. 
The  woman  gave  us  bread  and  cold  meat,  and  milk  to 
drink;  we  thanked  her  and  went  out  to  take  our  turn  at 
watching  while  the  others  ate.  The  men  were  gone. 
There  was  a  fence  about  twelve  feet  from  the  house, 
and  from  behind  the  fence  came  the  order  to  surrender; 
it  was  very  dark,  but  we  could  see  a  dozen  heads  above 
the  top  of  the  fence  and  the  gleam  of  the  leveled  car 
bines. 

'"Are  you  Yanks?'  I  called. 

"'No!' 

"'Oh'— as  though  relieved.  'That's  all  right,  then; 
we  surrender!'  They  came  in  and  took  away  our  re 
volvers.  Then  I  remembered  that  in  my  pocket  there 
was  a  pass,  naming  me  as  scout  and  passing  me  through 
the  Union  lines  at  all  times;  I  managed  to  get  the  small 
pocketbook  and  by  a  flip  of  my  fingers  shoot  it  up  my 
sleeve  and  hold  it  in  the  hollow  of  my  arm.  Then  they 
took  us  into  the  house  and  the  inquisition  began." 

As  he  talked,  the  memory  of  that  night  seemed  to  grow 
and  brighten  till  he  lived  it  in  the  present — yes,  and  made 
me  live  it,  too. 

"See,"  he  said,  getting  to  his  feet  and  moving  swiftly 
about  the  room.  "Here  is  the  fireplace,  a  big  one,  and 
there  is  a  window — there  where  that  one  is;  and  there 
another  one,  and  here  is  the  door  into  the  hall — open, 
and  there  is  one  into  the  next  room  that  is  closed.  And 
here  am  I  with  the  light  strong  on  my  face,  so  that  they 
could  see  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid  or  the  twitch  of  a  muscle, 
and  the  captain,  with  his  back  to  the  light,  sits  facing  me, 
with  our  chairs  close  together.  Townsend  and  a  scout, 
close  facing  too,  are  over  there  more  in  the  shadow." 

8 


ROWAND 

See?  Of  course  I  saw:  the  guards  at  the  windows,  dim 
seen  in  the  night  outside;  the  guards  at  the  door  into  the 
big  bare  hall;  behind  them,  peeping  in,  the  frightened, 
white-faced  woman  with  the  sick  child  in  her  arms;  and, 
strong  in  the  glare  of  the  unshaded  lamp,  the  slender  boy 
of  eighteen,  lounging  easily  in  his  chair,  fighting  coolly 
and  shrewdly  for  his  life — a  half-smile  on  his  face,  and  the 
damning  pass  held  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm. 

"Townsend  and  I  never  even  glanced  at  one  another, 
but  each  strained  his  ears  for  the  other's  answers.  If 
we  had  been  examined  separately,  we  would  have  con 
tradicted  each  other  in  something,  and — been  hanged. 
But  we  kept  our  stories  straight.  Townsend  was  in 
grave  danger,  because  he  was  a  deserter  from  the  Con 
federate  General  Jenkin's  command,  and  the  man  who 
was  questioning  him  was  one  of  Jenkin's  scouts;  but  that 
very  fact  saved  him,  for  he  was  so  well  posted  that  he 
quickly  allayed  suspicion. 

"We  were  couriers  from  McCausland — I  told  the 
captain — with  verbal  messages.  Why  were  they  not 
written? — ask  McCausland  that!  As  to  what  the  mes 
sages  were,  that  was  different;  they  were  for  General 
Breckinridge  at  the  Rockfish  Gap,  and  could  not  be  told 
to  any  captain  met  in  the  road  who  asked  for  them. 
Describe  General  McCausland?  Certainly;  and  the  num 
ber  of  his  regiments  and  the  number  of  guns — (that  was 
easy;  I  had  been  in  his  camp  two  nights  before!) 

"The  scout  examining  Townsend  called  over,  'This 
man  is  all  right,  Captain.'  But  the  captain  shook  his 
head  over  me — he  was  troubled;  something  did  not 
ring  quite  true.  'Where  are  you  from?'  he  sharply  asked. 
'Lewis  County — West  Virginia,'  I  told  him.  In  Weston? 

9 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

Yes,  I  know  Lawyer  Jackson,  and  old  Doc  Hoffman,  and — 
Describe  them?  Sure!  (You  see,  we  had  been  camped 
there  in  August  and  September,  '62.) 

'"My  name  is  Hoffman,'  the  captain  said.  'Lee 
Hoffman,  of  Hampton's  Legion.'  He  was  still  looking 
at  me  with  a  frown  of  perplexity,  and  I  laughed  in  his 
face.  'You  think  I  am  a  deserter?'  I  asked.  'No,  I 
don't.  I  don't  understand  you — you  puzzle  me.  You 
are  a  Southerner — you  are  no  Yankee,  I  am  sure  of  that.' 
'Then  to  make  sure  what  we  are,  you  had  better  send  us 
under  guard  to  Breckinridge's  headquarters.'  It  was  that 
that  shook  down  his  last  doubts.  'I  have  a  letter,'  he 
said,  abruptly,  'for  General  Breckinridge.  Take  it  and 
get  through  as  quick  as  you  can.  Hurry.' 

"'Hurry!'  I  sneered.  'We'll  need  to! — you've  kept!  us 
here  an  hour  and  a  half  now.'  We  took  the  letter.  It 
is  the  one  found  on  page  759,  vol.  xxxvii,  of  the  Official 
Records;  it  begins:  'New  Fan-field,  Va.,  June  12,  '64.— 
ii  P.M.  Major-Gen.  J.  C.  Breckinridge.  General: 
—The  enemy  are  now  at  Lexington,  camped;  not  moving 
to-day.  .  .  .'" 

Rowand  gleefully  gave  this  letter  to  General  Averell 
next  morning,  but  not  before  he  and  his  companion  had 
again  come  near  to  being  hanged.  They  gave  up  the 
attempt  to  reach  Duffie,  and  trusted  that  their  comrades 
had  got  through.  All  the  rest  of  that  night  they  rode 
by  a  circuitous  route  over  the  mountains  to  the  Lexington 
and  Staunton  Pike,  and  so  toward  Lexington.  At  dawn 
they  struck  the  Union  pickets — an  Ohio  volunteer  in 
fantry  regiment,  by  whom  they  were  arrested,  haled  be 
fore  the  colonel,  who  would  believe  nothing  except  that 
they  were  in  gray  uniforms,  and  who  cursed  them  for 


ROWAND 

spies,  and  vowed  to  hang  them  both  within  the  hour. 
Rowand  demanded  to  be  sent  to  headquarters ;  the  colonel 
said  he  was  insolent,  and  cursed  him  again.  But  finally 
they  were  sent  to  Averell — footing  it,  while  their  captors 
rode  their  horses;  and  then  "somebody  else  caught  -  — ." 

He  told  how  Jubal  Early  had  defeated  them  at  Lynch- 
burg,  and  of  how,  in  that  awful  retreat  through  a  world  of 
mountains  to  Charleston,  he  had  seen  men  and  horses  in 
the  very  midst  of  the  army  fall  down  in  the  road  and  die 
of  fatigue  and  starvation. 

He  told  of  lying  in  a  clump  of  bushes  on  a  little  hill  in 
Pennsylvania  at  the  edge  of  ill-starred  Chambersburg 
— he  and  his  partner,  John  Lamis — momentarily  expecting 
Averell  at  the  head  of  his  cavalry  to  come  and  save  the 
town.  They  had  sent  their  companion  to  tell  him  to 
hurry,  but  still  he  did  not  come.  Nor  did  he  come  all 
the  long,  hot  July  morning,  and  they  lay  in  the  bushes 
and  watched  the  Confederate  cavalrymen  of  McCaus- 
land  and  Bradley  Johnson  burn  and  pillage  the  town. 

He  told  of  the  nine-day  pursuit  back  into  West  Vir 
ginia,  and  of  how,  near  Moorefield,  the  scouts  had  cap 
tured  the  picket  without  firing  a  shot ;  and  of  the  surprise 
of  the  camps  at  dawn,  and  the  scattering  of  the  com 
mands  of  Bradley  Johnson  and  McCausland  to  the  four 
winds. 

His  face  wreathed  in  smiles  and  he  shook  with  laughter 
as  he  told  of  the  snake  and  the  frog.  How  he  and  four 
other  scouts  had  reconnoitered  the  enemy  near  Bunker 
Hill,  and  were  riding  leisurely  back  to  Averell  in  Mary 
land;  how,  as  they  rode  through  Hedgesville,  he  had 
stopped  to  chat  with  a  young  girl  who  was  an  old  friend; 
and  then  had  rejoined  his  men  in  a  great  wood  near  the 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

Potomac,  and  there  they  had  found  a  big  black-snake 
which  had  half  swallowed  a  large  bullfrog  that  was 
fighting  stoutly  against  taking  the  road  that  lay  before 
it.  And  instantly  there  was  no  war,  and  they  were  not 
scouts  in  an  enemy's  country  in  peril  of  their  lives,  but 
they  were  boys  again  and  it  was  summer,  and  here  in  the 
cool  woods  was  one  of  nature's  fierce  battles — to  be 
wagered  on !  In  a  moment  they  were  off  their  horses,  and 
now  they  cheered  the  snake,  and  now  for  the  frog;  Mike 
Smith  held  the  stakes.  He  told  how  there  had  suddenly 
flamed  a  volley  from  out  the  wood,  and  they  had  flung 
themselves  on  their  horses  and  made  a  dash  out  of  the 
ambush — all  but  Smith;  Smith  the  stakeholder!  His 
horse  was  down,  shot  through  the  side,  struggling  and 
thrashing  on  the  ground;  Smith  ran  in  silence  for  the 
river.  And  how  as  he  passed  he  caught  Smith  by  the 
collar  and  dragged  him  across  his  own  big  gray  horse; 
then,  firing  as  they  rode,  they  all  had  dashed  for  the  ford. 
The  disappointed  enemy  maliciously  told  the  girl  in 
Hedgesville  that  they  had  killed  the  Yank  on  the  big 
gray  horse,  and  she  grieved  for  many  a  day. 

He  told  of  a  lonely  duel  in  the  middle  of  a  great,  sunny 
field.  There  was  neither  sight  nor  sound  of  armies  nor 
of  war:  only  summer  sights  and  sounds — wind  in  the  long 
grass,  and  bees;  and  the  great  white  clouds  overhead. 
And  he  was  going  toward  the  rebel  lines,  and  that  other 
boy  was  headed  for  the  lines  of  the  Blue.  Each  knew 
that  the  other  must  not  go  on;  they  fired.  Of  all  the 
memories  of  those  harsh,  savage  days,  the  one  of  most 
bitter  regret  is  that  of  the  lonely,  sunlit  field  where  lay 
the  huddled  body  of  the  other  boy. 

"And  now  this,"  said  Rowand,  "is  the  last  scouting 

12 


A    LONELY    DUEL    IN    THE    MIDDLE    OF    A    GREAT,    SUNNY    FIELD 


ROWAND 

I  did  for  Averell;  it  came  near  being  the  last  that  I  ever 
did." 

He  told  how  he  and  John  Lamis  had  been  sent  to  go 
around  Martinsburg,  get  in  the  Confederate  rear,  and 
find  what  cavalry  were  there.  And  how  as  they  rode 
through  a  wood,  believing  themselves  to  be  in  the  rear  of 
the  rebel  army,  there  sounded  the  rebel  yell  behind  them, 
and  the  cavalry  came  charging  through.  They  were 
swept  into  the  charge  against  their  own  men.  They 
yelled  as  loud  as  any  one,  but  kept  edging  out  to  the 
flank  so  as  to  drop  out  at  the  first  chance.  But  they  had 
to  keep  right  on  into  the  town,  and  as  they  went  charg 
ing  through  he  was  next  the  sidewalk,  and  a  young  lady 
whom  he  knew — her  name  was  Miss  Sue  Grimm — stood 
with  her  mother  at  their  doorway.  She  was  so  surprised 
to  see  him  in  such  a  place  that  she  called,  "Why,  Archie 
Rowand,  what  are  you  doing  with— 

"Shut  up  your  mouth!"  he  yelled — he  was  frightened 
half  to  death;  had  she  finished — "with  the  rebels" — he 
would  not  have  been  with  the  rebels  long;  he  would  have 
been  with  the  angels!  But  she  was  too  astonished  and 
too  angry  to  say  another  word,  and  so  he  and  Lamis 
got  through  and  joined  the  Federals  a  mile  and  a  half 
north  of  the  town.  It  took  him  three  months  to  make 
peace  with  that  young  lady. 

Of  such  stories  a  score,  and  I  reluctantly  pass  them  by. 
All  that  he  had  done  up  to  this  time  was  but  the  novitiate 
of  his  service. 

Then  Sheridan  came  to  the  Valley.  His  coming  meant 
much  to  the  nation;  it  meant  much  to  Rowand,  too.  It 
meant  the  opportunity  to  do  work  that  was  of  great  value 
to  his  flag;  it  meant  such  an  increase  of  the  dangers  and  the 

13 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

excitement  he  loved  as  to  make  most  of  what  had  gone 
before  seem  but  playing.  For  him  it  meant  friendship 
— almost  intimacy — with  this  greatest  of  cavalry  generals ; 
and  a  hero-worship  begun  as  a  boy  has  continued  to  this 
day. 

From  their  first  interview  Sheridan  seemed  to  take  to 
the  boy,  perhaps  for  his  very  boyishness,  perhaps  for  his 
audacity  and  independence  of  speech,  as  much  as  for  his 
cool  daring  in  his  work.  "I'd  like  to  report  to  you  per 
sonally,  General,  or  not  at  all;  if  not,  please  send  me  to 
my  regiment,"  he  said  at  that  interview.  This  was  be 
cause  under  Averell  the  scouts  reported  to  Major  Howe, 
who  repeated  the  reports  to  the  general.  He  got  one  of 
Ro wand's  mixed;  as  a  consequence  Averell  lost  a  number 
of  men,  and  angrily  ordered  Rowand  to  his  regiment  in 
disgrace.  Rowand  was  able  to  prove  he  had  reported 
correctly,  and  that  he  had  reached  a  certain  point  (he 
proved  it  by  the  dead  body  of  his  comrade  who  fell  at 
that  place).  After  that  he  refused  to  report  except  to 
Averell,  and  his  demand  was  acceded  to.  He  meant  to 
start  right  with  Sheridan. 

"I  wanted  to  stay  with  Averell;  begged  to  stay.  He 
said  he  was  sorry  to  lose  me,  but  that  I  would  have  to  go. 
I  went  accordingly.  I  had  never  seen  General  Sheridan, 
never  had  him  described.  Averell  and  Milroy  were  big 
men — somehow  I  expected  to  find  another  big  man; 
he  was  big  only  in  fight.  (Sheridan  was  but  five  feet 
five.)  He  was  pointed  out  to  me  in  front  of  headquar 
ters,  and  I  went  up  and  saluted.  He  looked  me  up  and 
down. 

"I  asked  General  Averell  for  his  oldest  scout/  was  all 
he  said. 

14 


ROWAND 

' ' '  I  am  his  oldest  in  point  of  service — in  knowledge  of 
the  Valley/  I  answered. 

"'How  old  are  you?  How  long  have  you  served?'  he 
inquired.  I  was  nineteen,  I  told  him,  and  had  scouted 
for  over  two  years  in  the  Valley.  He  took  me  into  head 
quarters  and  pumped  me  for  an  hour  and  a  half;  then 
sent  me  for  four  or  five  good  men  as  'quick  as  you  can 
get  them.'  I  got  Jack  Riley,  Dominic  Fannin,  Jim 
White,  Alvin  Stearns,  and  John  Dunn.  A  scout  named 
James  Campbell  came  to  Sheridan  from  the  Army  of  the 
Potomac." 

These  men,  and  two  or  three  others,  seem  to  have  been 
the  nucleus  of  Sheridan's  scouts  in  the  Valley  of  the 
Shenandoah — the  Secret  Service  organization  which  a 
little  later,  having  been  recruited  up  to  forty,  under  com 
mand  of  Major  H.  H.  Young,  became  the  most  efficient, 
the  most  noted,  in  the  Federal  army. 

"Months  afterward  General  Sheridan  asked  me  what 
I  supposed  he  saw  when  I  first  reported  to  him:  'Two 
big  brown  eyes  and  a  mouth,  Rowand;  that  was  all!' 
I  weighed  less  than  a  hundred  and  forty  then — you 
mightn't  believe  it  now — and  I  was  six  feet  tall.  He  had 
that  way  with  us,  that  easy  friendliness;  we  would  have 
done  anything  for  him.  He  was  a  fine  man!" 

Silence  fell;  he  stared  unseeing  out  the  window,  musing; 
the  office,  and  me,  and  the  stenographer  with  poised  pen, 
I  saw  he  had  quite  forgot.  And  I  envied  him  that  inner 
sight  of  the  great  dead  leader — the  chance  to  live  over 
again  in  memory  his  close  service  with  Philip  H.  Sheridan, 
the  beau-ideal  of  the  war. 

Presently  he  began  again,  slowly:  "General  Sheridan 
was  the  best  officer  by  all  odds  that  I  have  served  under. 

15 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

He  stood  by  his  scouts  in  everything,  and  they  one  and 
all  would  have  gone  to  any  ends  to  get  for  him  the  in 
formation  that  he  desired.  He  himself  gave  his  orders 
to  us — his  'old'  scouts,  that  is,  those  of  us  who  were  with 
him  before  Major  Young  took  command — and  he  per 
sonally  received  our  reports.  He  was  impulsive,  but  not 
in  the  least  the  rough  bully  that  some  writers  have  tried 
to  make  him  out.  I  saw  him  very  angry  only  once — and 
that  was  at  me.  [The  chuckle  left  no  doubt  as  to  how 
it  had  come  out.]  It  was  on  the  James  River  Canal 
Raid,  one  very  dark  night  just  after  a  storm — it  did  noth 
ing  but  storm  those  days  (early  March,  '65) — that  a  party 
of  us  scouts  found,  unguarded,  a  great  warehouse  con 
taining  about  three  hundred  thousand  dollars  of  supplies. 
We  galloped  back,  and  I  was  sent  in  to  Sheridan  to  report. 

"'Did  you  burn  them?'  he  asked,  sternly. 

'  * '  Why,  General, '  I  said,  '  we  did  not  have  orders—  He 
was  getting  madder  all  the  time;  and  at  that  he  roared: 
'Orders  hell!  Why  didn't  you  burn  those  things — why 
didn't  you  think!' 

"It  was  only  a  couple  of  days  afterward  that  we  ran 
across  more  stores.  Of  course  we  burned  them.  When 
I  came  to  that  part  of  my  report  about  rinding  the  stores 
he  gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair  and,  leaning  forward, 
asked,  'You  didn't  burn  those?' 

"'Yes,'  I  said,  proudly,  'I  set  them  on  fire/ 

"He  leaped  from  his  chair  and  shouted:  'What  in  hell 
did  you  burn  those  for!  I'm  going  up  that  way  to 
morrow.'  He  kind  of  glared  at  me  for  a  minute,  and  then 
he  remembered  the  last  time  I  had  reported  to  him,  and 
he  burst  into  a  big  laugh. 

"After  General  Sheridan  came  to  the  Valley  I  made 

16 


ROWAND 

several  uneventful  trips  into  the  enemy's  lines.  [Unless 
he  escaped  by  a  hair's-breadth  any  trip  was  "uneventful," 
and  he  could  not  be  got  to  say  much  about  it.]  The 
night  before  Cedar  Creek  I  had  got  in  from  a  hard  trip 
to  Moorefield  and  Romney;  Sheridan  was  away,  and  I 
came  back  to  scouts'  headquarters  and  went  to  sleep. 
About  2  A.M.  or  later  I  was  wakened  by  Dominic  Fannin 
and  Alvin  Stearns  getting  in,  and  damning  Crook  right 
and  left.  They  had  been  sent  up  the  Valley  to  New 
Market  and  Woodstock  at  the  same  time  I  was  sent  to 
Romney,  and  when  coming  back  they  fell  in  with  some  of 
Early's  stragglers  at  Fisher's  Hill,  where  the  enemy  was 
camped,  and  with  them,  under  cover  of  night,  they  had 
worked  their  way  into  the  Confederate  lines,  and  dis 
covered  that  the  Federals  were  about  to  be  flanked  in 
their  camp  on  the  banks  of  Cedar  Creek.  With  all  speed 
they  withdrew  from  the  enemy's  lines  and  made  for  the 
Union  camp.  Sheridan  was  in  conference  with  Halleck 
in  Washington,  and  so  they  reported  to  General  Crook, 
who  commanded  the  Eighth  Corps — known  as  the  Army 
of  West  Virginia.  'The  enemy  will  attack  at  dawn!' 
said  they.  Crook  pooh-poohed  the  idea ;  treated  the  news 
very  lightly;  made  them  feel  like  a  five-cent  shinplaster, 
as  Fannin  said  to  us  at  the  scouts'  headquarters. 

"We'll  be  attacked  at  daylight — you  see!'  they  grum 
bled,  and  then  they  fell  to  swearing  at  Crook  again,  and 
wishing  Sheridan  had  received  their  report.  They  made 
such  a  fuss  that  I  said,  finally :  '  Lie  down,  you  two  fools, 
and  let  me  sleep.  If  Crook  can  stand  it,  we  ought  to!' 
And  I  fell  asleep." 

In  the  light  of  what  followed  it  is  not  surprising  that 
General  Crook  has  made  no  report  of  the  information 
2  17 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

brought  him  by  the  scouts  that  night  before  Cedar  Creek. 
That  he  should  have  treated  their  report  so  lightly  is 
because  he  had,  as  he  believed,  good  reason  to  think  such 
an  attack  impossible.  At  eight  o'clock  that  very  evening 
he  had  reported  to  General  Wright  that  a  brigade  recon- 
noissance  sent  out  by  him  that  day  had  returned  to  camp, 
and  reported  nothing  was  to  be  found  of  the  enemy  in 
their  camp,  and  that  they  had  doubtless  retreated  up  the 
Valley.  This  seemed  sound,  General  Wright  goes  on  to 
say  in  his  official  report,  because  the  enemy  was  known 
to  be  without  supplies  Yet  the  mistake  was  not  easy  to 
explain.  Probably  the  reconnoitering  party  had  not  ad 
vanced  so  far  as  it  supposed — had  not  really  reached  the 
enemy's  lines,  which  were  some  miles  in  advance  of  the 
Federal. 

This  reconnoitering  party  from  the  Army  of  West  Vir 
ginia  returned  to  camp  through  its  own  lines  (where  the 
first  blow  fell  next  day),  and  undoubtedly,  as  they  passed 
the  pickets,  confided  their  belief  that  the  Confederates 
were  in  retreat  up  the  Valley.  How  else,  except  for  this 
fancied  security  and  lulled  suspicion,  could  the  enemy 
next  morning  have  swept  over  their  entire  picket-line 
without  firing  a  single  shot? 

This  is  the  new  story  of  what  might  have  been,  what 
should  have  been,  at  Cedar  Creek,  October  19,  1864. 
General  Crook  was  given  by  these  two  scouts  the  chance 
to  redeem  the  incomprehensible  blunder  of  his  recon 
noitering  brigade,  but  he  refused  to  credit  their  report, 
and  the  battle  of  Cedar  Creek  was  fought  and  lost,  and 
fought  again  and  won,  between  day-dawn  and  dark. 
Had  Crook  heeded  the  scouts,  there  would  have  been  no 
surprised  army  in  the  cold  fog  of  an  autumn  morning, 

18 


ROWAND 

no  routed  and  panic-shaken  army  to  pour  down  the  Valley 
to  Winchester  twenty  miles  away,  no  chance  for  General 
Phil  Sheridan  to  make  his  famous  ride  on  Rienzi  and  turn 
the  tide  of  fugitives,  and  with  them  at  his  back  change 
defeat  into  victory.  .  .  . 

That  night  there  came  down  through  the  deep,  wooded 
ravines  of  Fisher's  Hill  an  army  as  gray  and  as  silent  as 
the  river  fog  that  rolled  to  meet  it  and  envelop  it  with  a 
cold,  sheltering  veil.  The  march  was  a  march  of  gray 
shadows;  canteens  and  the  very  swords  of  the  officers 
had  been  left  behind  lest  their  jangle  sound  a  warning; 
the  fog  muffled  into  a  low  patter  the  rush  of  thousands  of 
footfalls.  In  the  half-light  of  coming  dawn  they  struck 
—in  flank,  in  front,  in  rear.  Solid  battle-lines,  without 
skirmishers,  swept  up  and  over  every  picket-post,  swallow 
ing  picket,  patrol,  and  reserve,  whose  scattered  firing  was 
as  pebbles  flung  into  the  sea.  So  swift  and  certain  was 
the  attack,  so  sure  the  surprise,  that  they  were  in  the  camp 
and  upon  those  regiments  of  the  Army  of  West  Virginia, 
where  reveille  had  been  sounded,  ere  the  unarmed  men  at 
roll-call  had  time  to  arm  and  form.  It  was  but  a  matter 
of  minutes  before  all  were  swept  together  into  a  panic- 
stricken  mob,  on  whom  the  Confederates  turned  their 
own  cannon  and  mowed  them  down  as  they  ran.  In 
other  regiments  men  heavy  with  sleep,  their  arms  laden 
with  their  clothing — having  been  wakened  only  by  the 
attack — plunged  out  of  their  tents  into  a  twilight  of  fog 
and  low-rolling,  ever-densening  smoke,  in  which  they  ran 
here  and  there  in  bewilderment.  Officers,  no  less  con 
fused,  raged  about,  desperately  trying  to  rally  the  fleeing 
men ;  here  and  there  groups  held  for  a  moment  and  turned 
to  fight,  but,  overwhelmed  by  numbers  and  attacked  on 

19 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

two  sides,  they  scattered,  and,  like  the  rest,  fled  once 
more  for  the  support  of  the  Nineteenth  Corps.  The 
wreck  of  the  Army  of  West  Virginia,  like  driftwood  on  the 
crest  of  a  wave,  shattered  and  demoralized  the  Nineteenth ; 
surprised  and  already  attacked  in  flank,  they  too  crum 
bled  and  ran;  and  the  unchecked  Confederates  swept 
victorious  over  the  camps  of  plenty.  Pillage  began. 

To  the  sleeping  scouts  the  attack,  expected  though  it 
was,  came  in  its  suddenness  with  equally  bewildering  sur 
prise.  Rowand  tells  how  a  bullet  that  cut  through  a 
blanket  over  the  window  was  their  first  warning  that  the 
enemy  was  so  near.  There  was  no  time  to  change  to 
blue  uniforms;  capture  for  them  meant  certain  death; 
they  made  a  rush  for  the  door  and  flung  themselves  on 
their  horses  and  galloped  away.  Once  across  the  creek, 
they  rode  more  slowly,  often  looking  back. 

And  he  tells  of  General  Wright,  harassed  though  he 
was  with  the  anxiety  of  command,  yet  recognizing  them 
as  they  passed,  and  shouting,  "You  scouts  had  better  fall 
back — this  will  be  no  place  for  those  uniforms  in  a  few 
minutes!" 

The  roads  were  filled  now  with  struggling  teams  fight 
ing  for  a  passage  to  the  rear;  long  lines  of  wounded  stag 
gered  and  lurched  along  the  roadsides,  desperately  afraid 
of  the  plunging  teams,  and  of  the  enemy  behind,  and  of 
their  own  bleeding  wounds.  On  either  side,  and  far  out 
into  the  fields  that  bordered  the  roads,  there  hurried 
hundreds  of  uninjured  stragglers  in  groups  of  twos  and 
threes  and  tens — groups  of  hundreds.  Now  and  again 
the  cry  would  go  up,  "They're  coming!"  and  the  panic 
would  spread,  and  in  a  moment  every  man  would  be  run 
ning  again,  flat-footed,  furious,  in  a  blind  haste  to  escape 

20 


ROWAND 

from  the  terrified  comrades  who  pressed  hard  on  his 
heels;  in  the  roads,  teamsters  stood  up  on  the  seats  of 
the  lurching  wagons  and  lashed  their  horses  and  screamed 
at  drivers  of  wagons  ahead  who  blocked  the  way;  from 
where  the  wounded,  frantic  at  being  left  behind,  struggled 
to  keep  up,  there  rose  one  long  wail  of  pain  and  terror. 
From  behind  there  came  ever  the  roar  of  battle  where 
the  Confederates  who  would  not  pillage  fought  the  Fed 
erals  who  would  not  run. 

And  then  Sheridan  came  up  the  Valley.  Rowand  and 
Campbell,  who  had  stuck  together  all  the  morning,  were 
already  north  of  Newt  own  when  they  met  him. 

"I  looked  across  a  large  clear  field  and  saw  a  black 
horse  at  full  speed  coming  out  of  the  woods,  and  I  said  to 
Campbell,  'There  comes  the  "Old  Man"  —we  always 
called  General  Sheridan  the  'Old  Man';  and  he  said, 
1  Can't  be;  he's  in  Washington.'  I  looked  again  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  'It's  him;  there  come  a  couple  of 
his  staff  officers  a  hundred  yards  behind.'  We  stopped, 
and  General  Sheridan  came  up,  pulled  in  his  horse,  and 
said,  'Boys,  how  is  it?'  Campbell  replied,  'General,  it's 
a  rout!'  He  threw  his  eyes  quick  at  me  and  said, 
'Not  quite  that  bad!  The  Eighth  and  Nineteenth  are 
scattered,  but  the  Sixth  is  solid!' 

"A  young  lieutenant,  with  a  Nineteenth  Corps  badge 
on  his  cap,  was  hurrying  by;  Sheridan  wheeled  around  to 
him.  'Lieutenant,  where  is  your  command?'  'I  don't 
know,'  the  lieutenant  shouted,  and  was  hurrying  on  again. 
'Damn  you,  turn  back  and  find  it!'  Sheridan  yelled,  and 
passed  on.  The  lieutenant  stopped.  'Who  was  that, 
scout?'  'That  was  General  Sheridan/  I  said.  Til 
turn  back!'  he  cried. 

21 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

"It  was  the  same  all  along  the  road;  the  men  were 
coming  back  up  the  Valley  faster  than  they  had  run 
down  it ;  ahead  of  us  they  were  running  toward  the  road, 
and  lining  up  on  either  side,  and  as  we  rode  along  there 
was  just  one  great  roar  of  cheers." 

He  told  of  the  ride  back  to  the  front,  where  the  Sixth 
Corps  and  remnants  of  the  Nineteenth  had  been  sullenly 
battling — holding  off  the  Confederate  army  all  the  day; 
of  how  the  ebb-tide  that  had  turned  came  roaring  back 
to  the  fight  in  a  flood  of  men  who  could  scarce  be  held 
back  from  the  attack  until  the  lines  were  sufficiently  re 
inforced  and  reformed.  And  when  he  told  of  Sheridan, 
bareheaded,  riding  along  in  front  of  his  battle-line  where 
it  waited  the  command  to  advance,  he  rose  from  his  chair, 
and  his  eyes  alight  with  the  old  battle-fire,  he  pounded 
the  desk  with  his  fist.  "There  has  been  a  lot  told  and  a 
lot  written  of  what  Sheridan  said  that  day,  but  here  is 
what  he  did  say — the  very  words;  I  was  there,  I  heard, 
and  these  are  his  very  words.  A  man,  out  of  the  ranks, 
called,  'General,  where  will  we  sleep  to-night?'  General 
Sheridan  stopped  his  horse  and  turned;  he  didn't  speak 
loud,  but  in  the  hush  that  fell  his  words  seemed  to  ring: 
*  We'll  sleep  in  our  old  camps  to-night,  or  we'll  sleep  in 
hell!'  And  a  moment  or  two  after  that  he  gave  the 
signal  to  advance,  and  the  whole  line  moved  out,  cheering 
like  mad.  History  tells  the  rest." 

What  a  different  story  history  would  tell  of  the  battle 
of  Cedar  Creek  if  General  Crook  had  heeded  the  message 
of  the  two  long-since-forgotten  men  of  the  Secret  Service ! 

There  was  little  enough  for  the  army  to  do  for  a  time, 
but  for  the  scouts  there  was  no  rest.  For  as  many  times 
as  they  left  the  Federal  lines  so  are  there  stories — nearly 

22 


ROWAND 

all  untold.  Untold,  because  familiarity  breeds  contempt 
— they  were  just  scoutin',  like  the  day  they  shot  Captain 
Stump.  They  had  been  in  the  mountains — "Oh,  just 
some  little  scout,  I  don't  remember  why!" — and  at  a 
house  where  they  had  stopped  they  had  "gathered  in" 
a  Confederate  captain — Stump.  It  was  bitterly  cold 
that  day,  the  roads  heavy  with  snow;  to  have  bound  his 
hands  would  have  meant  that  he  would  freeze;  they  put 
him  in  their  midst  and  rode  swiftly  away.  He  was  an 
oddly  genial  soul — he  kept  up  a  continual  gay  chatting 
with  the  men.  An  angry  shout  went  up  from  one  of  the 
scouts ;  the  prisoner  had  been  caught  in  the  act  of  stealing 
a  revolver  from  a  drowsy  member  of  the  band.  He  was 
defiant,  yet  laughing  as  he  talked:  he  had  a  right — he 
had  not  surrendered,  only  been  overpowered,  and  they 
would  never  get  him  into  the  Federal  lines,  he  said. 

"I'll  have  you  killed  if  you  try  that  again,"  Major 
Young  told  him. 

It  was  savagely  cold;  the  worn  men,  drowsy  with  the 
frost,  nodded  in  their  saddles ;  only  the  prisoner  was  wide 
awake;  he  rode  now  at  Major  Young's  side,  talking  gayly, 
laughing  at  his  own  jests.  Rowand,  close  behind,  woke 
from  a  doze  in  time  to  see  the  prisoner  straighten  in  his 
saddle  and  snatch  his  hand  from  behind  Major  Young's 
back. 

"He's  trying  to  get  your  gun,"  Rowand  called,  sharply. 

Young  reined  in  his  horse  with  a  jerk.  "I  told  you!" 
he  calmly  said.  "Ride  aside,  boys — plug  him,  Rowand!" 

Half  a  dozen  men  fired  on  the  instant.  They  left  him 
lying  in  the  snow  where  he  fell. 

This  is  a  good  place  to  tell  the  story  of  Sergeant  Richards. 
Major  Harry  Gilmor  had  just  been  captured  within  his 

23 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

own  lines — that  story  will  be  told  further  on.  Prisoner 
Gilmor  was  being  brought  along  by  the  Federal  cavalry 
several  miles  behind  Major  Young  and  Rowand  and  the 
other  gray-clad  scouts.  Rowand  spied  a  Confederate 
soldier  on  the  door-step  of  a  house  in  the  fields  back  from 
the  road.  "I'm  going  to  get  that  fellow!"  Rowand  said. 
The  scouts  reined  in  their  horses  and  watched  with  amused 
interest;  they  foresaw  a  fight.  Rowand,  in  his  gray 
uniform,  rode  over  to  the  unsuspecting  Confederate. 
Of  all  Confederate  soldiers  who  should  it  be  but  Sergeant 
Richards,  the  man  whom  Rowand  had  captured  two  years 
before  at  Cheat  Mountain  near  Monterey!  The  rec 
ognition  was  not  mutual.  Comedy  was  too  scarce  those 
days  to  overlook  such  an  opportunity. 

"Sergeant  Richards,"  Rowand  saluted — "Major  Gil 
mor  wants  to  see  you."  The  name  of  Harry  Gilmor 
was  a  potent  one  in  that  county. 

"Wait  till  I  get  my  horse,"  said  Sergeant  Richards. 
Rowand,  chuckling,  waited.  Presently  they  rode  over 
to  the  group  of  scouts,  and  Rowand,  with  a  wink,  in 
troduced  Sergeant  Richards  to  Young:  "This  is  the  man 
Major  Gilmor  wants  to  see!"  Young  and  the  scouts 
rode  on,  laughing  boisterously.  Then  suddenly  from 
around  the  bend  came  the  Federal  cavalry,  in  their  midst 
prisoner  Gilmor.  Too  late,  Sergeant  Richards  saw  the 
trap. 

"You've  got  me,"  he  said,  sullenly.  "But  what  I 
want  to  know  is,  how  did  you  know  my  name  ?  'twas  that 
that  fooled  me  so!"  Rowand  told  him.  "It's tough," 
said  Sergeant  Richards.  "For  two  years  I've  been  in 
the  prison  where  you  sent  me;  now,  less'n  a  month  after 
I'm  freed,  along  you  come  again  and  send  me  back!" 

24 


ROWAND 

Rowand  thoughtfully  rode  ahead  to  his  place  with  the 
scouts.  "I  don't  want  to  send  that  fellow  back  again," 
he  finished,  when  he  told  Major  Young  the  story.  "All 
right,"  Young  said,  good-naturedly. 

Rowand  galloped  back  to  the  cavalry:  "I  want  this 
fellow.  Ride  aside,  Richards!"  No  mere  cavalrymen 
were  permitted  to  question  the  doings  of  a  scout;  they 
turned  Richards  over  to  him.  When  the  cavalry  was  out 
of  sight  he  paroled  his  astonished  prisoner — set  him  free 
on  his  promise  to  fight  no  more  until  properly  exchanged. 

As  he  told  me  the  story  Rowand  laughed  delightedly: 
"I  hadn't  the  authority,  by  any  manner  o'  means,  to 
parole  any  one.  I  just  did  it  anyhow!" 

Night  after  night  the  "Jessie  Scouts"  rode  out.  The 
odd  name  they  bore  was  an  inheritance  handed  down 
to  them  since  the  days  of  Fremont  in  the  Valley;  in  the 
command  of  this  general  of  pomp  and  panoply  there  had 
been  a  company  dear  to  his  heart  because  of  their  rich 
uniforms  faced  with  velvet,  and  to  them,  in  honor  of  his 
wife,  he  gave  the  name  "Jessie  Scouts."  Long  after 
Fremont  and  his  Jessie  Scouts  had  left  the  Valley  the 
name  lingered  in  the  minds  of  citizens  and  soldiery,  and 
at  last  it  came  to  be  attached  to  those  Federal  scouts 
who  wore  the  gray  uniform.  Where  they  rode  and  what 
they  did  no  man  now  remembers — few  men  but  them 
selves  ever  knew — and  they  left  no  written  record  of  their 
service;  the  vague  memories  of  those  many  nights  are 
held  in  dusty,  inner  chambers  of  the  mind,  to  which,  long 
since,  the  tongue  has  lost  the  key. 

But  one  night — the  2ist  of  January — is  in  no  danger  of 
being  forgot.  It  is  not  because  they  captured  the  enemy's 
picket-reserve  at  Woodstock  that  I  tell  it  here;  nor  be- 

25 


ON   HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

cause  of  the  desperate  fight  that  followed  in  the  cold  winter 
dawn,  when  two  hundred  Confederate  cavalry  swooped 
down  on  them  before  they  had  left  Woodstock  a  mile 
behind.  Some  one  had  blundered;  the  fifty  "picked 
cavalrymen"  sent  for  the  scouts'  support  were  but  the 
rawest  of  raw  recruits,  who  stampeded  at  the  first  fire. 
The  twenty  scouts  covered  their  panic-stricken  flight, 
fighting  like  madmen  when  overtaken,  breaking  away  and 
pushing  their  jaded  mounts  to  topmost  speed  until  over 
taken  again.  For  ten  miles  the  fight  lasted,  until  at 
Fisher's  Hill  the  pursuit  was  given  up  and  those  that 
were  left  were  safe.  Those  that  were  left !  The  prisoners 
were  all  gone;  among  the  cavalry  there  galloped  wildly 
many  riderless  horses;  and  of  the  scouts  one  was  dead, 
two  mortally  wounded,  one  seriously  hurt,  and  in  the 
hands  of  the  enemy  were  four,  of  whom  one  was  Cassidy, 
the  only  one  dressed  in  full  Southern  gray.  And  it  is  because 
of  Cassidy,  and  because  of  a  keen-eyed  Southern  girl  who 
nearly  ended  Rowand's  story  here,  that  I  tell  what  follows. 

He  would  be  hanged ! — Cassidy,  one  of  the  best  of  them 
all.  Sheridan,  in  an  effort  to  save  him,  sent  a  staff  officer, 
Major  Baird,  under  a  flag  of  truce  with  an  offer  of  ex 
change.  And  Rowand,  wearing  again  his  blue  uniform, 
was  sent  as  part  of  the  escort,  to  pick  up  any  information 
that  might  come  to  his  trained  hand;  among  the  escort 
he  would  never  be  recognized — nor  would  he  have  been 
by  men. 

At  Woodstock  Major  Baird  was  met  by  Major  Grand- 
staff  of  the  Seventeenth  Virginia  Cavalry,  who  received 
his  offer  of  exchange. 

"Cassidy  was  taken  in  our  uniform  inside  our  lines; 
we  will  hang  him,"  he  said. 

26 


ROWAND 

"He  was  not  in  your  lines,  for  we  captured  your 
pickets,"  Major  Baird  argued. 

GrandstafI  laughed.    ' '  We  will  hang  Cassidy, ' '  he  jeered. 

"Then,  by  God!  there'll  be  a  rebel  officer  swing  in 
Winchester  to-night, "  shouted  Baird. 

They  had  met  in  the  street  of  Woodstock;  as  they 
talked,  a  group  of  town-folk  gathered  close  about  them, 
listening  in  eager  curiosity;  there  were  men  and  many 
women,  even  some  children  too.  Suddenly  a  young  girl 
ran  forward  and  pointed  her  finger  almost  in  Ro wand's 
face. 

"Hang  this  one,  too,"  she  cried.  "He  is  one  of  their 
'Jessie  Scouts.'  I  saw  him  here  yesterday  in  gray.  He 
is  a  spy — spying  now!"  She  stood,  still  pointing;  her 
shawl  had  fallen  back  and  the  wind  was  whipping  her  hair 
across  her  angry  eyes;  she,  too,  would  serve  her  South 
— let  this  be  "one"  for  her.  It  was  a  shocking  surprise; 
it  seemed  long  before  any  one  moved  or  spoke.  A  Con 
federate  cavalryman  pushed  his  way  through  Grands  taff's 
escort ;  a  sullen,  vindictive  fellow  he  was,  with  murder  in 
his  eyes. 

"I'll  kill  him  now;  he  is  one  of  them  that  killed  my 
brother  yesterday,"  he  snarled. 

Rowand,  glad  of  any  distraction,  drew  his  revolver  and 
sprang  to  meet  him  half-way.  ' '  Step  out  to  one  side  and 
we'll  settle  it,  then,"  he  challenged. 

Major  Grandstaff  rode  between  them  and  drove  them 
to  their  respective  commands,  then  he  turned  angrily  to 
Major  Baird.  "Is  this  one  of  your  scouts — one  of  your 
spies?"  he  asked.  It  was  Rowand  himself  who  answered; 
the  place  was  a  bit  too  tight  to  trust  any  one  else's  wit 
than  his  own. 

27 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

"You  know,  or  ought  to  know,  that  I  belong  to  the  First 
West  Virginia  Cavalry.  I  was  one  of  the  thirteen  men 
under  Lieutenant  Smith  that  charged  through  your  com 
mand  on  the  top  of  Fisher's  Hill!"  And  this  story  was 
true,  and  it  was  one  the  Confederates  much  preferred  to 
forget. 

GrandstafI  curtly  closed  the  interview,  and  the  Federals 
rode  slowly  back.  Rowand  was  safe  in  their  midst,  but 
Tom  Cassidy  they  had  to  leave  behind. 

Rowand  was  fumbling  among  a  bundle  of  old  letters, 
and  I  sat  silent  and  watched  eagerly;  such  worn,  yellow 
letters  they  were — broken  at  all  the  creases,  frayed  along 
the  edges ;  the  faded  words  had  been  written  in  a  vigorous 
boyish  hand. 

11  Letters  home — from  the  front!"  he  said.  He  picked 
one  up  and  cleared  his  throat  to  read,  then  sat  silent, 
staring  at  it  in  his  hand.  .  .  .  The  boy  of  nearly  fifty  years 
ago  is  to  come  back  and  speak  again  of  deeds  that  were 
done  but  yesterday — not  of  what  happened  in  the  Civil 
War,  but  what  he  did  yesterday.  What  weight  have 
words  written  to-day  to  compare  with  those  faded  letters 
on  that  yellow  page?  "At  the  front!" — that  front  to 
which  we  cannot  follow  even  could  he  lead  the  way ;  that 
front  where  for  four  years — Four  Years,  you  reader — 
letters  home  were  written  by  men  with  weapons  in  their 
hands,  by  men  with  throbbing,  unhealed  wounds.  By 
some  this  letter  will  be  read  aright,  as  I  and  you  may 
not  read  it.  Old  gray  heads  will  read  and  nod:  the  Grand 
Army  of  the  Republic,  they  will  know — they  know!  .  .  . 

MY  DEAR  FATHER, — I  received  a  letter  from  you  some  days  since. 
As  I  had  just  written  to  you  the  same  day,  I  thought  I  would  wait 

28 


ROWAND 

a  few  days  before  answering  it.     I  have  just  returned  from  a  three 
days'  trip  to  Wardensville,  Moorefield,  and  Romney. 

Our  trip  was  a  perfect  success.  Succeeded  in  capturing  the  noto 
rious  Major  Harry  Gilmor  and  fifteen  men  of  different  commands. 
On  Tuesday  I  was  ordered  with  one  man  to  go  to  Moorefield.  By 
order  of  Gen.  Sheridan,  went  to  Moorefield  and  returned  on  Thursday, 
reported  to  the  General  the  whereabouts  of  Harry  Gilmor  and  com 
mand.  The  General  requested  me  to  send  in  a  written  report  to  be 
filed.  On  Saturday  morning  a  force  of  cavalry  (300)  and  twenty 
scouts  left  this  place  for  Moorefield,  distant  fifty-eight  miles.  Trav 
eling  all  Saturday  night,  we  arrived  at  Moorefield  Sunday  morning 
just  before  day.  Leaving  the  town  surrounded  by  a  strong  picket, 
we  struck  the  South  Fork  river  road.  I  advanced  with  five  scouts. 
Two  miles  from  town  we  came  in  sight  of  two  large,  fine  houses: 
William's  and  Randolph's,  where  Major  Gilmor  was  supposed  to  be. 

On  coming  in  sight  of  them  we  started  on  a  gallop  for  Randolph's 
house,  when  an  order  came  from  Major  Young  to  go  to  William's 
house.  Dashing  across  the  fields,  we  surrounded  William's  house  and 
caught  one  of  Rosser's  men.  Major  Young  went  on  to  Randolph's 
and  there  caught  Harry  in  bed.  He  was  a  little  astonished,  but  took 
things  coolly.  You  may  be  sure  that  we  gave  him  no  chance  to  escape. 
He  is  now  under  strong  guard  in  our  quarters.  To-morrow  three  of 
us  will  take  him  to  Baltimore,  so  I  will  have  a  pleasant  trip.  I  spoke 
to  you  of  going  to  Edenburg  and  capturing  the  picket-post  and  of  being 
followed  and  whipped  by  a  superior  rebel  force. 

The  following  Sunday  we  again  surprised  them  and  captured  the 
lieutenant  and  twenty-two  men.  So  we  more  than  got  even  with  them, 
as  they  got  only  sixteen  of  our  [first]  party.  So,  you  see,  for  the  last 
three  Sundays  I  have  had  some  doing  in  the  fighting  line.  On  the  last 
trip  I  captured  two  fast  horses;  I  have  now  three  number  one 
horses.  .  .  . 

Your  son,  ARCHIE  H.  ROWAND. 

Not  as  we  would  have  written  it?  Years  of  fighting, 
of  marches,  and  of  hardships  make  details  seem  trivial 
and  commonplace;  the  result  is  the  thing.  His  "to 
Moorefield,  distant  fifty-eight  miles,"  sounds  like  a  rail 
road  journey.  It  was  a  forced  march  of  hardship  and  ex 
haustion,  in  bitter  cold,  and  over  mountain  roads  that 
were  alternately  sheeted  with  ice  and  deep  in  snow-drifts. 

29 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

It  would  have  been  good  reading  for  us  had  he  described 
the  imminent,  constant  peril  he  was  in  during  all  the 
lonely  trip  when  gathering  "that  great  essential  of  suc 
cess — information  " ;  the  letter  was  not  written  to  us ;  it  was 
to  the  father  and  mother  at  home,  and  it  is  kinder  and 
braver  as  it  stands.  My  quarrel  with  his  letter  is  in  not 
telling  how  well  he  did  his  work;  it  was  great  work  to  have 
done. 

Sheridan  in  his  Memoirs  says:  " Harry  Gilmor(e)  was 
the  most  noted  of  these  [West  Virginia  guerrillas]  since  the 
death  of  McNeill.  .  .  .  Thus  the  last  link  between  Mary 
land  and  the  Confederacy  was  carried  a  prisoner  to  Win 
chester,  whence  he  was  sent  to  Fort  Warren.  The  capture 
of  Gilmor(e)  caused  the  disbandment  of  the  party  he  had 
organized  at  the  'camp-meeting';  most  of  the  men  he 
had  recruited  returned  to  their  homes,  discouraged.  ..." 

This  "camp-meeting,"  Rowand  had  learned,  was  noth 
ing  less  than  the  rendezvous  of  Gilmor's  band,  who  were 
reorganizing  and  preparing  for  the  spring  campaign. 
A  party  of  about  twenty  young  Marylanders  were  ex 
pected  soon;  the  Federal  scouts  in  their  gray  uniforms,  by 
their  own  story,  became  these  expected  Marylanders; 
their  desperate  haste  was  caused  by  the  pursuit  of  Yankee 
cavalry — no  other  than  Colonel  Whitaker's  support  of 
three  hundred  cavalrymen,  who  followed  the  scouts  at  a 
distance  of  fifteen  miles.  The  whole  country-side  gave 
the  gray-clad  scouts  Godspeed  and  much  help  on  their 
way;  coming  back,  they  shot  at  them  from  the  dark! 

Nor  does  the  letter  tell  of  the  quarrel  between  the 
scouts  and  the  cavalry  as  to  the  custody  of  the  prisoner; 
it  ended  by  Major  Young  and  his  scouts  angrily  riding 
away  from  the  cavalry  with  whom  they  had  been  obliged 

30 


ROWAND 

to  leave  him.  But  by  the  time  they  had  reached  Big 
Capon  Springs,  Rowand  and  Young  were  so  fearful  for 
the  safe  keeping  of  the  prisoner  that  Rowand,  in  spite 
of  his  exhaustion  from  having  been  almost  constantly 
in  the  saddle  for  a  week,  went  back  with  three  men  to 
take  charge  of  Gilmor;  they  arrived  in  the  very  nick  of 
time.  It  was  years  afterward  before  they  knew  how 
critical  had  been  the  moment. 

In  his  book,  Four  Years  in  the  Saddle,  Gilmor  says: 
"We  were  then  some  distance  ahead  of  the  main  column 
.  .  .  none  in  sight  except  the  colonel  and  his  orderly,  the 

surgeon,  H [Gilmor 's  cousin,  who  had  been  captured 

with  him],  and  myself.  We  halted,  and  the  orderly  was 
sent  back  to  hurry  up  a  fresh  guard  for  me.  The  doctor 

and  H were  on  their  horses,  while  the  colonel  and  I 

were  standing  in  the  road  in  advance  of  them.  The 
place,  too,  was  a  good  one,  on  the  side  of  a  small  moun 
tain,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  seize  the  colonel  before 
he  could  draw  his  pistol,  throw  him  down,  and  make  my 
escape.  I  was  about  three  paces  from  him  when  I  formed 
this  plan,  and  I  moved  up  close  to  carry  it  into  effect.  .  .  . 

I  put  my  hands  on  H 's  horse,  when  suddenly  up 

dashed  four  scouts." 

It  was  the  end  of  Maj.  Harry  Gilmor 's  military  career. 

"It  is  growing  late,"  Rowand  said.  "Just  time  for 
one  more  letter — my  big  letter — and  then  that  must  be 
all.  It  is  dated  'City  Point,  Virginia,  March  13,  1865,' 
and  it  begins: 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — I  suppose  you  will  be  surprised  to  receive  a 
letter  from  me  from  this  place. 

I  arrived  here  yesterday  afternoon  from  Gen.  Sheridan's  raiding 
forces  with  despatches  for  Gen.  Grant.  There  were  two  of  us.  We 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

left  Gen.  Sheridan  at  Columbia  on  the  James  River  Canal,  one  hundred 
miles  west  of  Richmond.  At  the  time  we  left  he  had  destroyed  the 
Virginia  Central  Railroad  between  Charlottesville  and  Staunton; 
blew  up  both  bridges  of  the  Rivanna  River  near  Charlottesville.  It 
will  be  impossible  for  the  Rebels  to  rebuild  their  bridges  during  the 
war.  We  were  forced  to  stay  in  Charlottesville  two  days  on  account 
of  the  heavy  rain.  Leaving  there,  we  struck  out  for  Lynchburg, 
destroying  the  Railroad  as  we  went;  burned  the  large  bridge  over  the 
Tye  River,  eighteen  miles  from  Lynchburg.  By  this  time  the  Rebels 
had  collected  a  large  force  of  infantry  and  cavalry  at  Lynchburg. 
When  Gen.  Sheridan  got  all  of  the  Rebels  at  Lynchburg  he  turned 
around  and  came  north,  destroying  the  Canal  beyond  repair  during 
the  war.  He  burned  and  blew  up  every  lock,  culvert,  and  aqueduct 
to  Columbia — a  distance  of  forty  miles. 

We  left  at  one  o'clock  Saturday  morning  and  came  into  our  pickets 
near  Harrison's  Landing  on  Sunday  morning  at  eleven  o'clock.  Came 
from  there  here  in  a  special  boat  under  charge  of  Gen.  Sharp  of  Gen. 
Grant's  staff.  On  arrival  at  Headquarters,  after  delivering  our  de 
spatches,  the  Acting  Adjutant-General  took  us  around  and  introduced 
us  to  Mrs.  Gen.  Grant  and  several  other  ladies  whose  names  I  have 
forgotten.  They  had  expressed  a  wish  to  see  the  two  men  that  came 
through  the  Rebel  lines  in  open  day.  Gen.  Grant  was  well  pleased 
with  our  success  in  getting  through.  The  staff  was  surprised  at  our 
getting  through  at  all.  They  quite  lionized  us  last  night.  Several 
of  them  invited  us  to  drink  with  them.  We  took  supper  with  them. 
Then  the  Sanitary  Commission  took  charge  of  us.  We  had  a  nice 
bath,  good  underclothes  given  us,  and  a  bed  that  felt  better  than 
all,  considering  we  had  no  sleep  for  forty -eight  hours.  We  rode  one 
hundred  and  forty-five  miles  in  thirty-six  hours,  and  walked  ten  miles, 
and  came  north  of  Richmond.  Of  course  we  came  a  roundabout  way, 
or  rather  a  zigzag  way.  Several  times  we  were  within  ten  miles  of 
Richmond  and  talked  to  some  fifty  Rebels;  gained  valuable  informa 
tion.  We  had  quite  a  confab  with  four  of  Gen.  Lee's  scouts;  passed 
ourselves  off  for  Gen.  Rosser's  scouts.  Being  dressed  in  gray,  they 
never  suspected  us.  They,  in  fact,  never  expected  to  see  two  Yankees 
right  in  the  midst  of  their  lines  in  broad  daylight.  We  were  never 
suspected  until  we  were  within  two  miles  of  the  Long  Bridges,  where 
suspicion  was  raised,  and  we  were  forced  to  leave  our  horses  at  the 
Bridges  and  paddle  across  in  a  small  boat  to  the  south  side.  When 
we  came  to  the  river  there  was  a  small  boat  floating  down  the  river. 
I  swam  with  my  horse  to  the  boat,  got  off  my  horse  into  the  boat,  and 
went  back  for  my  partner.  We  left  our  horses  and  made  quick  time 

32 


ROWAND 

across  these  swamps.  We  got  into  the  woods  before  the  Rebels  got 
to  the  river.  They,  of  course,  got  our  horses — the  two  best  in  the 
Sixth  Cavalry.  The  fleetness  of  our  horses  alone  saved  us,  as  we  had 
time  to  get  across  the  river  before  the  Rebels  got  to  the  bank.  Al 
though  we  could  see  them  coming  down  the  road,  they  did  not  follow 
us  any  further  than  the  bank  of  the  river,  as  there  is  no  boat,  and  they 
could  not  swim  their  horses  across.  Then  we  got  from  there  to  our 
pickets,  most  of  the  time  being  in  the  woods;  the  compass  father  gave 
me  has  done  me  great  service,  as  I  have  a  military  map  of  Virginia. 
With  both,  it  is  not  difficult  to  go  the  nearest  way  to  any  point.  When 
I  swam  my  horse  I  got  my  clothes  wet  and  boots  full  of  water.  When 
I  got  to  our  pickets  I  was  perfectly  dry,  but  was  so  crippled  in  my 
feet  I  could  scarce  walk.  I  am  all  right  to-day. 

We  are  to-day  quartered  with  Gen.  Grant's  scouts.  They  think 
it  is  the  biggest  and  boldest  scout  trip  of  the  war. 

We  will  start  back  in  a  couple  of  days.  We  are  to  be  sent  to  the 
White  House  [Landing]  on  the  York  River  gunboat,  and  with  good 
fast  horses  start  for  our  command  again. 

Love  to  all.  Hoping  that  these  few  lines  will  find  you  in  good  health, 
I  remain, 

Your  Affectionate  Son, 

ARCHIE  H.  ROWAND." 

It  was  as  though  I  had  heard  read  a  crisp,  succinct 
scenario  of  one  act  of  a  brilliant  drama.  I  wanted  to  take 
the  letter  in  my  own  hands  and  read  it  over  and  over  in 
order  to  bring  back  such  pictures — the  boy  on  the  horse 
in  the  river,  struggling  in  pursuit  of  a  drifting  boat— 
a  boat  which  only  a  great  God  could  have  placed 
in  reach  at  such  a  moment.  .  .  .  The  man  on  the 
shore,  pistols  drawn,  grimly  waiting,  his  eyes  on  the 
road,  and  his  ears  strained  for  the  sound  of  galloping 
hoofs.  .  .  . 

I  have  read  it  again,  a  score  of  times,  have  planned 
where  to  amplify  and  detail;  it  is  not  for  me  to  meddle 
with;  the  story  is  told,  the  pictures  already  painted  for 
those  who  care  to  see. 

He  was  talking  again,  and  I  but  half  heard. 

3  33 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

"Of  the  wind-up  of  the  war,  when  we  were  around 
Petersburg,  I  could  tell  as  many  stories  as  I've  told  al 
ready,  but — not  to-night.  Every  proper  story  should 
have  a  climax,  and  this  is  the  climax  of  mine.  I  missed 
the  Grand  Review!  I  had  to  leave  Washington  the  very 
day  before.  General  Sheridan  had  sent  for  a  few  of 
us  'old'  scouts — he  needed  us  along  the  Rio  Grande. 
But  I  didn't  stay  long,  for  I  was  tired  of  war,  tired  of 
fighting,  and  half  sick  besides.  August  17,  1865,  I 
got  myself  mustered  out  at  New  Orleans,  and  came 
home. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  good-humoredly,  "I  am  tired 
again.  My  tongue  has  made  a  long  march  to-day.  Look 
at  this,  if  you  want  to,  and  then  we  must  say  good  night." 
It  was  a  copy  of  a  letter  of  Sheridan's,  and  I  give  it  here, 
because  its  terse,  soldierly  words  form  a  greater  and  finer 
appreciation  than  could  any  words  of  mine: 

To  THE  ADJUTANT-GENERAL  OF  THE  ARMY,  WASHINGTON,  D.  C.; 

SIR, — I  respectfully  recommend  that  a  Medal  of  Honor  be  given  to 
private  Archibald  H.  Rowand,  Jr.,  First  W.  Va.  Cavalry,  for  gallant 
and  meritorious  services  during  the  War. 

During  the  James  River  Raid,  in  the  winter  of  '64-5,  private  Rowand 
was  one  of  the  two  men  who  went  from  Columbia,  Va.,  to  General 
Grant,  who  was  encamped  at  City  Point. 

He  also  gave  information  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  the  Confederate 
scout  Harry  Gilmor(e)  and  assisted  in  his  capture,  besides  making 
several  other  daring  scouts  through  the  enemy's  lines.  His  address 
is  L.  B.  224.  Pittsburg,  Penna. 

I  am,  sir,  very  respectfully,  your  obedient  servant, 
(Signed)          P.  H.  SHERIDAN, 

Lieut.-Gen.  U.S.A. 

When  I  had  done  he  handed  me  in  silence  a  small 
morocco  case.  Its  contents  stood  for  so  much  of  work, 
and  of  achievement,  and  of  honor,  that  I  took  it  almost 

34 


ROWAND 

with  reverence;  presently  I  closed  the  case  softly  and  said 
good  night. 

I  looked  back  when  I  had  reached  the  door.  All  the 
room  was  vague  in  shadows  except  where,  from  the  shaded 
lamp,  there  fell  on  the  desk  before  him  a  circle  of  brilliant 
light  in  which  he  was  slowly  reopening  the  little  leather 
case,  and  with  him  I  seemed  to  read,  graved  in  the  dark 
bronze,  the  shining  words,  "FOR  VALOR." 


"WILLIAMS,    C.S.A." 

"Who  had  done  his  work,  and  held  his  peace,  and  had  no  fear  to 
die." 

Two  men  came  riding  out  of  the  dusk  of  the  June  day. 

Why? 

For  nearly  fifty  years  the  reason  has  been  sought — 
and  never  found.  They  came  from  out  the  dusk,  tarried 
for  a  little  in  the  twilight,  then  passed  on  into  the  great 
night,  bearing  with  them  the  answer  to  a  question  that 
will  never  die  as  long  as  history  tells  their  story. 

If  it  might  have  been  that  they  had  lived,  and  that 
their  completed  work  had  been  an  answer  to  that  ride 
up  Figuer  Hill,  what  might  not  the  history  of  the  Con 
federacy  be  to-day? — that  Confederacy,  passionate,  hot- 
blooded,  all-loving,  all-sacrificing  Confederacy,  struggling 
to  slay  a  nation,  travailing  to  bear  a  nation,  and  who 
died,  her  nation  yet  unborn.  They,  too,  died,  and  with 
them  passed  the  answer. 

The  8th  of  June,  1863,  was  nearly  done.  Within  the 
earthen  bastions  of  Fort  Granger,  perched  on  the  crest  of 
Figuer  Hill,  the  camp-fires  which  had  cooked  the  evening 
meal  were  dying  to  dull  red  heaps  of  embers ;  to  the  west, 
at  the  foot  of  the  bluff,  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  beneath 
the  muzzles  of  Fort  Granger's  guns,  lay  the  little  town  of 
Franklin,  the  gray  thread  of  the  Harpeth  River  between. 
The  Tennessee  hills  ringed  the  town;  the  enemy  were 

36 


"WILLIAMS,    C.S.A." 

somewhere  beyond  the  hills,  for  the  war  had  come  the 
winter  before  to  Tennessee.  " Stone's  River"  had  been 
fought  at  the  coming  of  the  new  year,  and  the  Con 
federate  army  had  sullenly  withdrawn  to  the  south,  to 
Tullahoma,  thirty-six  miles  away.  Winter  had  passed, 
spring  was  passing  into  early  summer;  Rosecrans  sulked 
at  Murf reesborough ;  Bragg,  at  Tullahoma,  lay  in  wait 
for  him.  But  the  cavalry  of  the  South  waited  for  no  man. 
They  menaced  everywhere,  but  most  of  all  at  Franklin, 
the  Federal  right — an  outpost — weakened  now  by  the 
withdrawal  of  all  but  two  regiments  and  a  small  force  of 
cavalry.  Forrest's  Cavalry  ranged  the  country  some 
where  just  beyond  the  hills ;  Wheeler  was  circling,  no  man 
of  the  North  knew  where,  yet  very  sure  were  they  that  he 
would  strike — somewhere.  That  part  of  Tennessee  domi 
nated  by  Federal  troops,  the  Army  of  the  Cumberland, 
was  in  shape  a  fan,  a  partially  spread  fan  upside  down. 
Nashville,  the  base  of  supplies,  was  the  pivot ;  from  Nash 
ville  there  radiated  roads — pikes  they  call  them  in 
Tennessee — the  sticks  of  the  fan:  to  the  southeast,  to 
Murfreesborough — and  Rosecrans  with  the  main  body 
of  his  troops;  to  Triune,  more  nearly  south — the  vertex 
of  the  fan;  to  Franklin,  a  little  southwest — the  outpost 
of  the  army.  Of  dark  blue  was  this  half -open  fan,  dark 
blue,  dusty  and  worn;  not  jeweled,  but  aglitter  with 
points  of  steel. 

Franklin  had  been  attacked  on  the  4th,  and  Colonel 
Baird  had  beaten  off  the  attacking  force.  Since  then 
they  had  waited,  watchful  and  oppressed;  expecting 
Forrest,  dreading  Wheeler,  all  but  certain  of  the  return 
of  the  Confederates  from  Spring  Hill,  but  six  miles  to  the 
south. 

37 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

It  was  hot  that  night,  they  say — "a  hot,  murky  night." 
At  headquarters,  up  at  Fort  Granger,  Colonel  John  P. 
Baird — of  the  Eighty-fifth  Indiana — commandant  of  the 
post,  sat  at  his  tent  door,  talking  with  Colonel  Van  Vleck 
— that  same  Carter  Van  Vleck  from  whose  time-yellowed 
letters  have  been  plucked  so  many  of  the  intimate  de 
tails  of  this  story. 

Two  men  rode  out  of  the  dusk;  two  stranger  officers, 
unattended,  unescorted.  Colonel  Baird,  in  surprise,  rose 
to  greet  them.  They  were  superbly  mounted ;  their  uni 
forms  and  equipments  showed  them  to  be  officers  of 
rank  and  distinction.  At  their  new  merino  havelocks 
Colonels  Baird  and  Van  Vleck  must  have  stared ;  havelocks 
were  known  to  officers  and  men,  North  or  South,  only  as 
something  ''foreign,''  something  to  be  looked  on  askance. 
They  dismounted  and  strode  forward,  tall,  straight,  dig 
nified.  The  elder  and  taller  of  the  two  introduced  him 
self  as  Colonel  Auton  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac;  his 
companion  as  Major  Dunlop,  assistant  in  the  inspection 
of  the  Western  troops,  for  which  business  they  had  been 
sent  from  Washington.  They  had  just  come  from  Gen 
eral  Rosecrans  at  Murfreesborough.  Oh  yes,  they  had 
of  course  come  through  Triune,  and  had  seen  General 
Gordon  Granger  too.  As  this  Colonel  Auton  talked  he 
made  more  and  more  of  an  impression  on  Colonel  Baird ; 
it  was  with  positive  regret  that  he  heard  they  must  push 
on  to  Nashville  that  very  night.  There  was  something 
very  engaging  about  this  handsome,  dignified  young 
officer,  with  his  easy  grace  of  bearing;  a  note  of  brilliance 
to  his  conversation,  which  was  withal  frank  and  quiet; 
an  indefinable  air  of  distinction  and  individuality  in  all 
he  said  and  did.  Colonel  Baird  seems  to  have  grown 

33 


"WILLIAMS,    C.S.A." 

more  and  more  interested  and  attracted.  He  urged  them 
to  stay  the  night  with  him. 

It  was  impossible.  Would  Colonel  Baird  kindly  have 
their  passes  made  out?  And  so  the  order  to  make  out 
the  passes  was  given,  and  while  they  waited  Colonel 
Auton  told  of  their  misfortune.  They  had  lost  their  way 
from  Murfreesborough,  and  had  got  down  as  far  as  Eagle- 
ville;  the  rebels  had  attacked  them,  had  captured  their 
servant,  his  (Colonel  Auton's)  coat  and  all  his  money; 
they  had  been  pursued  for  a  long  distance  and  had  finally 
escaped  with  difficulty.  It  was  all  very  unfortunate. 
The  distressful  situation  of  the  two  officers  appealed  to 
Colonel  Baird. 

The  passes  to  Nashville  were  brought  out  just  then, 
but  were  sent  back  for  correction;  they  had  been  made 
out  to  Colonel  "Orton."  Auton  led  Colonel  Baird  aside; 
it  was  most  unfortunate,  but — they  were  quite  without 
money.  Could  Colonel  Baird  oblige  them  with  the  loan 
of  one  hundred  dollars  apiece — any  sum,  then — for  their 
immediate  expenses? 

Colonel  Baird  did  not  have  the  money,  but  went  at 
once  to  Colonel  Van  Vleck,  who  had  been  sitting  smoking 
in  incredulous  silence ;  of  him  he  asked  the  money — when 
they  were  out  of  earshot,  that  the  strangers  might  not  be 
embarrassed!  Colonel  Van  Vleck 's  letter  of  October 
28,  1863,  gives  his  own  reply: 

I  told  him  that  I  thought  the  men  were  not  what  they  represented 
themselves  to  be;  for,  said  I,  the  Government  would  not  send  two 
officers  of  their  rank  from  the  Potomac  to  inspect  the  Army  of  the 
Cumberland,  when  we  already  have  more  inspectors  of  our  own  than 
we  know  what  to  do  with.  Neither  would  Rosecrans  send  them  from 
Murfreesborough  through  the  enemy's  country  without  an  escort, 
a,nd  if  he  had  done  so  foolish  a  thing,  and  they  are  what  they  pretend 

39 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

to  be,  why  should  they  insist  upon  going  to  Nashville  to-night  with 
out  any  offer  to  inspect  the  troops  here,  and  this  after  such  peril  to 
get  here?  Again,  I  added,  is  it  not  strange,  if  true,  that  the  rebels 
should  be  able  to  capture  the  Colonel's  servant  and  coat  and  all  his 
money  and  yet  he  get  off  so  safely  himself  and  with  his  lieutenant? 

I  declined  to  let  the  money  go,  immediately  arose,  and  went  to  my 
own  tent,  saying  to  my  surgeon,  whom  I  found  there,  that  the  two 
men  who  were  attracting  so  much  attention  by  their  havelocks  were 
certainly  spies. 

Colonel  Baird,  disquieted,  asked  awkwardly  for  their 
orders;  Colonel  Auton,  who  seemed  to  have  taken  no 
offense  at  the  request  coming  at  such  a  time,  readily 
handed  them  to  him,  and  with  returning  composure  he 
read — written  on  the  long  envelop: 

HEADQUARTERS  DEPARTMENT  OF  THE  CUMBERLAND. 

MURFREESBOROUGH,    May  JO,    l86j. 

All  guards  and  outposts  will  immediately  pass  without  delay  Col. 
Auton  and  his  assistant,  Major  Dunlop. 

By  command  of  Major-General  Rosecrans:          J.  A.  GARFIELD, 

Vol.  Chief  of  Staff  and  Asst.  Adjutant-Gen. 

There  were  many  papers  in  the  envelop,  and  Colonel 
Baird  gravely  read  them  all: 

Special  orders        }  WAR  DEPARTMENT, 

No.  140  ADJT.  GEN'S  OFFICE. 

IV.  ...         )  WASHINGTON,  May  25,  1863. 

Col.  Lawrence  W.  Auton,  cavalry,  United  States  Army,  and  acting 
special  inspector-general,  is  hereby  relieved  from  duty  along  the  "Line 
of  the  Potomac."  He  will  immediately  proceed  to  the  West,  and 
minutely  inspect  the  Department  of  the  Ohio  and  the  Department  of 
the  Cumberland,  in  accordance  with  special  instructions  Nos.  140-162 
and  185,  furnished  him  from  this  office  and  that  of  the  Paymaster- 
General. 

V.  Major  George  Dunlop,  assistant  quartermaster,  is  hereby  re 
lieved  from  duty  in  this  city.  He  will  report  immediately  to  Col. 
Auton  for  duty.  By  order  of  the  Secretary  of  War: 

E.  D.  TQWNSEND, 
Assistant  Adjutant-General. 
Col.  Lawrence  W.  Auton,  U.  S.  A.,  Special  Inspector-General. 

40 


t  < 


WILLIAMS,    C.S.A. 


Special  orders       }  WAR  DEPARTMENT, 

No.  140.  ADJT.  GEN'S  DEPT. 

V.  ...          3  WASHINGTON,  May  25, 

Major  Geo.  Dunlop,  Assistant  Quartermaster,  is  hereby  relieved 
from  duty  in  this  city.  He  will  report  immediately  to  Colonel  Auton, 
special  inspector-general,  for  duty. 

By  order  of  the  Secretary  of  War: 

E.  D.  TOWNSEND, 
Assistant  Adjutant-General. 
Maj.  George  Dunlop,  assistant  quartermaster,  Special  Duty. 

HEADQUARTERS  DEPARTMENT  or  THE  CUMBERLAND. 

MURFREESBOROUGH,  TENN.,  May  jo,  1863. 

Col.  L.  W.  Auton,  Cavalry  Special  Inspector-General. 

Colonel:— 

The  major-general  commanding  desires  me  to  say  to  you  that  he 
desires  that,  if  you  can  spare  the  time  at  present,  that  you  will  in 
spect  his  outposts  before  drawing  up  your  report  for  the  War  De 
partment  at  Washington  City. 

All  commanding  officers  of  outposts  will  aid  you  in  this  matter  to 
the  best  of  their  ability. 

The  Gen.  desires  me  to  give  his  respects  to  you. 

I  remain,  very  respectfully,  your  obedient  servant, 

J.  A.  GARFIELD, 
Brig.  Gen.  of  Vols.,  Chief  of  Staff,  and  Asst.  Adjt.  Gen. 

HEADQUARTERS  UNITED  STATES  FORCES, 

NASHVILLE,  TENN.,  June  5,  1863. 

All  officers  in  command  of  troops  belonging  to  these  forces  will 
give  every  assistance  in  their  power  to  Col.  L.  W.  Auton,  special  in 
spector-general,  under  direct  orders  from  the  Secretary  of  War. 
By  Command  of  General  Morgan: 

JNO.  PRATT, 
Assistant  Adjutant-General. 

John  P.  Baird,  Colonel  of  Volunteers,  was  more  than 
satisfied;  he  handed  the  written  papers  back,  and,  it  is 
presumed,  apologized  handsomely  for  demanding  the 
papers  of  officers  acting  under  the  direct  orders  of  the 
Secretary  of  War.  He  procured  for  them  money — fifty 

4? 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

dollars — gave  them  the  corrected  pass  to  Nashville, 
gave  them  the  countersign,  heartily  wished  them  God 
speed  on  their  journey,  and  watched  them  ride  away  into 
the  night.  It  was  quite  dark  now — a  hint  in  the  air 
already  of  the  mist  that  was  later  to  envelop  Franklin 
in  its  dank  gray  mantle;  they  were  swallowed  up  in  the 
darkness  almost  instantly;  it  seemed  that  the  darkness 
blotted  out  the  very  sound  of  the  hoof -falls  of  the  horses. 
And  then  Colonel  Baird  thought  for  the  first  time  of  for 
gery!  He  was  alone  there  in  front  of  his  tent — no  one 
can  ever  know,  only  guess  at — the  shock  of  the  thought 
that,  in  spite  of  the  convincing  papers,  the  men  might  be 
the  destructive  wedge  of  the  Confederate  army.  Imag 
ine  his  position — the  anguish  of  indecision  as  vital  second 
followed  second  and  still  he  could  not  decide.  The  men, 
if  Federal  officers,  were  officers  of  importance  who  could 
not  be  lightly  ordered  back,  virtually  under  arrest;  he 
had  seen  the  papers  once — he  had  no  grounds  for  call 
ing  them  back  to  see  them  again.  He  must  have  grown 
more  confused — there  in  the  dark  with  no  one  to  see. 
Perhaps  he  was  an  imaginative  man;  perhaps  he  saw  the 
men  at  that  very  moment  presenting  his  pass  to  the  ad 
vance  pickets  out  there  at  Spencer's  Creek  on  the  Nash 
ville  pike;  saw  the  pickets  salute,  and  the  men  ride  on — 
where?  There  must  have  been  always  that  subconscious 
thought,  ''How  far  have  they  got  by  now?"  And  still 
he  had  not  decided  what  to  do. 

Col.  Louis  D.  Watkins,  colonel  of  the  Sixth  Kentucky 
Cavalry,  must  have  been  surprised  at  the  greeting  from 
his  superior  officer,  as  he  approached  headquarters  just 
then.  Colonel  Watkins  was  an  officer  of  the  "old"  army 
—a  regular;  Colonel  Baird  tensely  told  him  the  story, 


"WILLIAMS,    C.S.A." 

his  own  suspicions,  Van  Vleck's  outspoken  charge,  then 
thrust  upon  him  the  question.  Colonel  Wat  kins  was  very 
grave;  some  things  looked  very  wrong,  he  said.  Colonel 
Baird's  indecision  passed :  the  men  must  be  brought  back, 
their  papers  re-examined.  ' '  Tell  them  there  are  despatches 
to  be  sent  to  Nashville,  tell  them  anything — bring  them 
back,  Watkins,"  he  cried.  Colonel  Watkins  was  already 
mouiiting;  with  his  orderly  he  galloped  away.  Colonel 
Van  Vleck's  letter  tells  that  Colonel  Baird  "came  im 
mediately  to  see  me,  and  was  much  excited,  and  asked 
me  again  if  I  thought  they  were  spies.  I  replied  that  I 
did,  and  he  jumped  on  his  horse  and  followed  Colonel 
Watkins." 

Many  of  the  newspapers  of  that  day — very  brown  and 
fragile  they  are,  in  texture  and  in  truth! — tell  lurid  tales 
of  the  pursuers  and  the  pursued  riding  "with  lightning 
speed"  through  the  black  night;  of  the  "plan  that  was 
laid  for  the  orderly  to  unsling  his  carbine,  and  if,  when  he 
(the  Colonel)  halted  them,  they  showed  any  suspicious 
motions,  to  fire  on  them  without  waiting  for  an  order." 
How  Colonel  Auton,  when  overtaken,  "like  Major  Andre, 
for  an  instant  lost  his  presence  of  mind.  He  laid  his  hand 
on  his  pistol!" 

Colonel  Watkins  overtook  the  two  riding  leisurely 
along,  before  they  had  reached  the  outpost  at  Spencer's 
Creek.  They  readily  consented  to  return;  if  they  were 
surprised  that  an  officer  of  Colonel  Watkins 's  rank  had 
been  sent  posting  after  them  to  carry  such  a  message, 
they  did  not  show  their  surprise.  The  cavalry  camp  was 
of  course  outside  that  of  the  infantry.  At  Colonel  Wat- 
kins 's  quarters  he  suggested  that  they  wait  until  the  de 
spatches  were  brought  to  them — they  had  twenty  miles 

43 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

to  ride  to  Nashville,  no  use  to  ride  clear  to  headquarters 
for  the  despatches — more  excuses,  probably  equally  poor. 
They  thanked  Colonel  Watkins  and  entered  his  tent. 
Colonel  Watkins  rode  on  to  consult  with  Colonel  Baird. 
After  a  time,  becoming  impatient  and  restless,  Colonel 
Auton  went  to  the  door  of  the  tent  and  found  that  he 
and  Major  Dunlop  were  prisoners ;  the  tent  was  surround 
ed  by  sentries  who  would  not  let  him  pass.  Presently 
they  were  taken  under  guard  to  Headquarters  and  brought 
before  Colonel  Baird.  It  must  have  been  a  strange, 
unhappy  meeting  for  them  all,  a  meeting  of  which  there 
is  no  record,  one  which  can  be  pictured  only  in  the  mind. 
Colonel  Auton  and  Major  Dunlop,  insulted,  humiliated, 
flushed  with  anger  at  the  indignity  placed  upon  them; 
perhaps  voluble  and  eloquent,  threatening;  more  likely, 
dignified  and  coldly  distant  to  the  uneasy  officers  who 
faced  them,  challenging  their  word. 

The  papers  were  examined  again,  minutely.  The 
form  and  phraseology  of  the  papers  were  beyond  cavil: 
there  was  shown  to  be  a  reason  for  new  inspectors  in  the 
West ;  they  had  but  just  been  relieved  of  duty  in  the  East ; 
the  department  commander  apparently  had  accepted  the 
detail,  and  had  assigned  them  to  duties  which  accorded 
with  the  spirit  of  the  instructions  from  army  headquarters. 
It  was  all  very  regular  so  far  as  logic  and  circumstance 
went. 

The  newspapers  make  much  of  the  fact  that  the  papers 
were  not  written  on  the  regular  form-paper  used  by  the 
War  Department;  that  point  made  little  impression  on 
Colonels  Baird  and  Watkins,  who  were  as  much  in  doubt 
as  before;  Colonel  Baird  doggedly  held  them  as  prisoners 
still.  In  his  impatience  and  anxiety  he  himself  climbed 

44 


"WILLIAMS,    C.S.A." 

to  the  signal  station  back  of  Fort  Granger,  in  order  to 
receive  at  the  first  reading  the  reply  to  his  message  which 
he  was  about  to  send  to  Triune.  The  mist  was  fast 
thickening  to  fog;  they  stood  in  a  blur  of  pale,  dead,  un 
wavering  light;  the  signalman  with  his  torch  wig- wagged 
the  question,  and  then  they  waited  in  the  heavy  silence 
of  the  fog.  The  man  at  the  telescope  stared  into  a  gray 
void,  but  presently  he  flung  up  his  hand  for  silence  and 
jerkily  read  off  the  message :  Triune  could  not  understand, 
but  would  send  Lieutenant  Wharton  to  investigate. 
Colonel  Baird  dictated  another  message ;  the  signal  officer 
looked  anxiously  at  the  fog;  if  Triune  saw  and  answered, 
it  could  not  be  seen  there  on  the  fog-shrouded  hilltop 
at  Franklin.  Colonel  Baird  went  down  to  the  fort  again. 
Triune  was  nearly  fifteen  miles  away,  and  Lieutenant 
Wharton  could  not  arrive  for  several  hours.  There  was 
nothing  to  do  now  but  lay  the  matter  before  General 
Rosecrans  at  Murf reesborough ;  perhaps  he  had  hoped 
that  it  would  be  unnecessary  to  report  such  an  occurrence 
to  his  commanding  officer;  there  was  nothing  else  for  it 
now.  He  sent  the  following  telegram,  the  first  of  that 
singular  series  of  messages  sent  and  received  that  night: 

FRANKLIN,  June  8,  1863. 
Brigadier-General  Garfield,  Chief  of  Staff: 

Is  there  any  such  inspector-general  as  Lawrence  Orton,  colonel 
U.  S.  Army,  and  assistant,  Major  Dunlop?  If  so,  please  describe 
their  personal  appearance,  and  answer  immediately. 

J.  P.  BAIRD, 
Colonel,  Commanding  Post. 

There  is  no  time  given  on  this  message — probably  it 
was  by  then  nine  or  nine-thirty.  Ten  o'clock,  half  past 
ten,  eleven,  and  no  answer  to  the  question.  It  seems  to 

45 


ON   HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

have  aroused  little  interest  at  Murf reesborough ;  it  was 
grudgingly  answered,  and  was  delayed  in  getting  on  the 
wire. 

Lieutenant  Wharton  of  Triune  had  not  yet  arrived. 
It  was  an  anxious  interval.  What  took  place  during  the 
wait?  It  is  most  likely  that  Colonel  Auton  or  Orton— 
already  there  seems  to  have  arisen  a  doubt  as  to  which 
name  was  correct — and  his  assistant  remained  under 
guard  at  headquarters;  it  is  probable  that  they  were 
shown  every  courtesy  except  that  of  liberty  during  the 
long  and  anxious  wait.  When  Colonel  Baird  could  stand 
the  suspense  no  longer  he  wired  a  detailed  account  of 

the  case: 

FRANKLIN,  June  8,  1863 — 11:30  P.M. 
[Brigadier-General  Garfield :] 

Two  men  came  in  camp  about  dark,  dressed  in  our  uniform,  with 
horses  and  equipments  to  correspond,  saying  that  they  were  Colonel 
Orton,  inspector-general,  and  Major  Dunlop,  assistant,  having  an  order 
from  Adjutant-General  Townsend  and  your  order  to  inspect  all  posts, 
but  their  conduct  was  so  singular  that  we  have  arrested  them,  and 
they  insisted  that  it  was  important  to  go  to  Nashville  to-night.  The 
one  representing  himself  as  Colonel  Orton  is  probably  a  regular  officer 
of  old  army,  but  Colonel  Watkins,  commanding  cavalry  here,  in  whom 
I  have  the  utmost  confidence,  is  of  opinion  that  they  are  spies,  who 
have  either  forged  or  captured  their  orders.  They  can  give  no 
consistent  account  of  their  conduct. 

I  want  you  to  answer  immediately  my  last  despatch.  It  takes  so 
long  to  get  an  answer  from  General  (Gordon)  Granger,  at  Triune,  by 
signal,  that  I  telegraphed  General  (R.  S.)  Granger,  at  Nashville,  for 
information.  I  also  signaled  General  Gordon  Granger.  If  these  men 
are  spies,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  important  that  I  should  know  it, 
because  Forrest  must  be  awaiting  their  progress. 

I  am,  General,  your  obedient  servant, 

J.  P.  BAIRD, 
Colonel,  Commanding  Post. 

Within  fifteen  minutes  there  came  the  answer  to  the 
first  despatch,  and,  either  just  preceding  it  or  just  follow- 

46 


"WILLIAMS,    C.S.A." 

ing  it,  Lieutenant  Wharton  of  Triune.  It  must  have  been 
a  dramatic  moment  when  the  prisoners  rose  to  face  him. 
He  looked  at  them  steadily;  no  one  spoke  or  moved  for  a 
very  long  time.  They  had  not  been  at  Triune  that  after 
noon,  nor  ever,  he  said.  He  examined  the  papers  one  by 
one,  and  one  by  one  pronounced  them  beyond  all  doubt 
forgeries.  Why  he  could  do  so  so  positively  I  do  not 
know.  This  telegram  was  scarce  needed,  but  it,  too, 
dragged  them  down: 

HEADQUARTERS  DEPARTMENT  OF  THE  CUMBERLAND. 

MURFREESBOROUGH,  June  8 — 10:15  P-M- 
Colonel  J.  P.  Baird,  Franklin: 

There  are  no  such  men  as  Insp.  Gen.  Lawrence  Orton,  Colonel  U.  S. 
Army,  and  assistant  Major  Dunlop,  in  this  army,  nor  in  any  army,  so 
far  as  we  know.  Why  do  you  ask?  J.  A.  GARFIELD, 

Brigadier-General  &  Chief  of  Staff. 

There  is  a  note  of  irritation,  a  phrase  of  ridicule  in  the 
message,  as  of  a  man  who  answers  the  inconsequential 
questionings  of  a  child;  ''nor  in  any  army"! — a  very  dif 
ferent  message  from  the  terse,  sharp — almost  savage — 
military  order  which  was  to  follow  it. 

There  is  something  almost  boyish  about  Colonel  Baird, 
particularly  in  the  message  which  he  rushed  to  send. 
It  is  a  voluble,  jubilant  composition,  a  little  triumphant 
at  his  vindication  (perhaps  he  had  felt  the  sting  in  the  tone 
of  the  despatch  from  Murf reesborough) .  Perhaps  it 
is  just  the  effect  of  the  reaction  that  came  when  he  found 
that  he  had  not  made  a  serious  mistake,  but  instead  had 
made  an  important  capture.  He  had  not  yet  begun  to 
consider  the  men,  nor  what  he  would  be  called  upon  to 
do.  Unless  the  date  is  in  error,  the  message  must  have 
been  sent  before  midnight — showing  that  events  had 
moved  swiftly  there  at  Headquarters  tent. 

47 


ON   HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

FRANKLIN,  June  8,  1863. 
Gen.  Garfield,  Chief  of  Staff: 

I  had  just  sent  you  an  explanation  of  my  first  dispatch  when  I  re 
ceived  your  dispatch.  When  your  dispatch  came,  they  owned  up  as 
being  a  rebel  colonel  and  lieutenant  in  rebel  army.  Colonel  Orton,  by 
name,  but  in  fact  Williams,  first  on  General  Scott's  staff,  of  Second 
Cavalry,  Regular  Army.  Their  ruse  was  nearly  successful  on  me,  as 
I  did  not  know  the  handwriting  of  my  commanding  officer,  and  am 
much  indebted  to  Colonel  Watkins,  Sixth  Kentucky  Cavalry,  for  their 
detention,  and  Lieut.  Wharton,  of  Granger's  staff,  for  the  detection 
of  forgery  of  papers.  As  these  men  don't  deny  their  guilt,  what  shall 
I  do  with  them?  My  bile  is  stirred,  and  some  hanging  would  do  me 
good. 

I  communicate  with  you,  because  I  can  get  an  answer  so  much 
sooner  than  by  signal,  but  I  will  keep  General  Granger  posted.  I 
will  telegraph  you  again  in  a  short  time,  as  we  are  trying  to  find  out, 
and  believe  there  is  an  attack  contemplated  in  the  morning.  If 
Watkins  gets  anything  out  of  Orton  I  will  let  you  know. 
I  am,  General,  your  obedient  servant, 

J.  P.  BAIRD, 
Colonel,  Commanding. 

The  telegram  (in  answer  to  his  second  message)  that 
was  handed  him  almost  immediately  after  he  had  penned 
this  remarkable  despatch  must  have  come  like  a  dash 
of  icy  water  in  the  face — so  stern  and  harsh  it  is,  so  in 
sistent  upon  such  brutal  haste: 

HEADQUARTERS  DEPARTMENT  OF  THE  CUMBERLAND. 

MURFREESBOROUGH,    June  8 — 12  :OO  P.M. 

Colonel  J.  P.  Baird,  Franklin: 

The  two  men  are  no  doubt  spies.  Call  a  drumhead  court  martial 
to-night  and  if  they  are  found  to  be  spies,  hang  them  before  morning, 
without  fail.  No  such  men  have  been  accredited  from  these  head 
quarters.  J.  A.  GARFIELD, 

Brigadier-General  &  Chief  of  Staff. 

It  must  have  been  after  the  sending  of  Colonel  Baird 's 
last  despatch  that  the  search  of  the  persons  of  the  two 
Confederate  officers  was  made — else  the  evidence  dis- 

48 


"WILLIAMS,   C.S.A. 


>  > 


covered  would  have  been  contained  in  the  message. 
There  was  found  on  their  hatbands,  concealed  by  the 
havelocks,  their  names  and  their  rank  in  the  Confederate 
army.  On  one  sword  was  etched,  "  Lieutenant  Walter 
G.  Peter,  C.S.A."  Of  the  other,  Williams's,  Colonel  Van 
Vleck  writes:  "He  had  a  fine  sword  with  a  presentation 
inscription  on  it,  which  gave  his  name,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  as  'Colonel  L.  O.  Williams.'  It  was  from  some 
Confederate  general,  but  I  forget  who.  He  had  also 
$1,500,  Confederate  money,  or  thereabouts,  a  silver  cup, 
and  quite  a  number  of  small  trinkets.  Whether  there 
was  a  watch  I  cannot  now  remember."  Were  men  ever 
so  overwhelmed  by  the  weight  of  evidence? 

Of  the  hours  that  passed  from  midnight  to  three  o'clock 
there  is  nowhere  an  account.  It  was  the  twilight  that 
preceded  the  fall  of  utter  darkness ;  a  period  to  the  excite 
ment  that  had  just  passed;  harder  even  than  the  short 
hours  which  were  to  follow,  when  uncertainty  was  at  an 
end. 

They  were  cousins,  these  two — playmates  as  children, 
comrades  in  their  young  manhood ;  Colonel  Williams  would 
be  twenty-five  within  the  month,  Lieutenant  Peter  was 
but  twenty-one.  The  one  had  led  always,  the  other  had 
gladly  always  followed,  followed  with  boyish  admiration 
that  was  scarce  less  than  hero-worship.  Those  who  knew 
them  all  their  short  young  lives  tell  to-day  of  the  devotion 
of  Lieutenant  Peter  to  his  brilliant,  accomplished,  fearless 
cousin,  Orton.  It  is  true  beyond  all  doubt  that  Lieuten 
ant  Peter  had  not  known  the  purpose,  the  real  mission,  on 
which  he  and  Colonel  Williams  had  entered  the  Federal 
lines;  it  is  probable  that  he  never  knew.  Orton  had  led, 
and  he  had  followed. 

4  49 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

This  is  no  time  for  imaginative  writing — of  what  their 
thoughts  must  have  been;  of  what  they  may  have  said 
or  done.  They  were  left  alone,  undisturbed  by  the 
Federal  officers;  they  are  to  be  left  alone  now. 

Orderlies  hurried  through  the  sleeping  camp,  stopping 
here  and  there  to  rouse  some  listed  officer:  "The  Colonel 
orders,  sir,  that  you  assemble  at  once  at  Headquarters 
for  drumhead  court."  .  .  .  "The  Colonel  orders,  sir,  that 
you  assemble  at  once  at  Headquarters  for  drumhead 
court,"  the  order  was  monotonously  repeated  here  and 
there.  The  swiftest  and  most  terrible  of  all  courts  of  law, 
the  midnight  drumhead  court  martial,  convened.  Officers 
greeted  one  another  with  voices  unconsciously  lowered; 
the  chairs  as  they  were  drawn  up  to  the  table  made  a  great 
scraping  on  the  bare  board  floor.  One  of  the  lamps  went 
out,  and  an  orderly  placed  a  row  of  lighted  candles  along 
the  edge  of  the  long  table;  the  row  of  tiny  flames  threw 
bizarre,  wavering  shadows  on  faces  and  walls,  threw 
garish  shimmers  of  light  on  side-arms  and  brass  buttons; 
burned  with  the  solemnity  of  waxen  tapers  on  an  altar 
of  sacrifice;  then  flickered  and  danced  again. 

The  prisoners  were  brought  in.  The  trial  began;  the 
trial  of  spies  who  had  made  no  attempt  to  gain  informa 
tion,  who  had  no  drawings  of  fortifications,  who  had  naught 
to  condemn  them  but  an  intention  that  was  never  known. 

In  the  Official  Records  of  the  the  Union  and  Confeder 
ate  Armies,  volume  XXIII,  Part  II,  pages  424,  425,  thus 
stands  the  record  of  their  trial: 

RECORD  OF  THE  MILITARY  COMMISSION.    HEADQUAR 
TERS  POST,  FRANKLIN,  JUNE  9,   1863. 

Before  a  court  of  commission  assembled  by  virtue  of  the  following 
order: 

50 


"WILLIAMS,    C.S.A." 

HEADQUARTERS  POST  OF  FRANKLIN, 

June  9 — 3:00  A.M. 

A  court  of  commission  is  hereby  called,  in  pursuance  of  orders  from 
Major-General  Rosecrans,  to  try  Colonel  Williams  and  Lieutenant 
Peter,  of  rebel  forces,  on  charge  of  being  spies,  the  court  to  sit  imme 
diately,  at  headquarters  of  the  post. 

Detail  for  Court: — Colonel  Jordan,  Ninth  Pennsylvania  Cavalry, 
President;  Lieutenant-Colonel  Van  Vleck,  Seventy-eighth  Infantry; 
Lieutenant-Colonel  Hoblitzel,  Fifth  Kentucky  Cavalry;  Captain 
Crawford,  Eighty-fifth  Indiana  Infantry,  and  Lieutenant  Wharton, 
Judge  Advocate. 

By  order  of  J.  P.  Baird,  colonel  commanding  post. 

The  court  and  judge  advocate  having  been  duly  sworn  according 
to  military  law,  the  prisoners  were  arraigned  upon  the  following 
charges: 

Charges  and  specifications  against  Col.  Lawrence  Auton,  alias 
Williams,  and  Lieut.  Walter  G.  Peter,  officers  in  rebel  forces. 

Charges: — being  spies. 

Specifications: — In  this,  that  said  Col.  Lawrence  Auton,  alias  Wil 
liams,  and  Lieut.  Walter  G.  Peter,  officers  in  the  so-called  Confederate 
States  of  America,  did,  on  the  8th  day  of  June,  1863,  come  inside  the 
lines  of  the  Army  of  the  United  States  at  Franklin,  Tennessee,  wearing 
the  uniform  of  Federal  officers,  with  a  pass  purporting  to  be  signed  by 
Major-General  Rosecrans,  commanding  department  of  the  Cumber 
land,  and  represented  to  Col.  J.  P.  Baird,  commanding  post  of  Frank 
lin,  that  they  were  in  the  service  of  the  United  States;  all  this  for  the 
purpose  of  getting  information  of  the  strength  of  the  United  States 
forces  and  conveying  it  to  the  enemies  of  the  United  States  now  in 
arms  against  the  United  States  Government. 

E.  C.  DAVIS, 
Captain  Company  G,  Eighty-fifth  Indiana  Infantry. 

Some  evidence  having  been  heard  in  support  of  the  charge  and 
specifications,  the  prisoners  made  the  following  statement: 

That  they  came  inside  the  lines  of  the  United  States  Army,  at 
Franklin,  Term.,  about  dark  on  the  8th  day  of  June,  1863,  wearing 
the  uniform  they  then  had  on  their  persons,  which  was  that  of  Federal 
officers;  that  they  went  to  the  headquarters  of  Col.  J.  P.  Baird,  com 
manding  forces  at  Franklin,  and  represented  to  him  that  they  were 
Colonel  Auton,  Inspector,  just  sent  from  Washington  City  to  overlook 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

the  inspection  of  the  several  departments  of  the  West,  and  Major 
Dunlop,  his  assistant,  and  exhibited  to  him  an  order  from  Adjutant- 
General  Townsend  assigning  him  to  that  duty,  an  order  from  Major- 
General  Rosecrans,  countersigned  by  Brigadier-General  Garfield, 
chief  of  staff,  asking  him  to  inspect  his  outposts,  and  a  pass  through  all 
lines  from  General  Rosecrans;  that  he  told  Colonel  Baird  he  had  missed 
the  road  from  Murfreesborough  to  this  point,  got  too  near  Eagleville 
and  ran  into  rebel  pickets,  had  his  orderly  shot,  and  lost  his  coat 
containing  his  money;  that  he  wanted  some  money  and  a  pass  to 
Nashville;  that  when  arrested  by  Colonel  Watkins,  Sixth  Kentucky 
Cavalry,  after  examination  they  admitted  they  were  in  the  rebel  army, 
and  that  his  (the  colonel's)  true  name  was  Lawrence  Orton  Williams; 
that  he  had  been  in  the  Second  Regular  Cavalry,  Army  of  the  United 
States  once,  on  General  Scott's  staff  in  Mexico,  and  was  now  a  colonel 
in  the  rebel  army,  and  Lieutenant  Peter  was  his  adjutant;  that  he  came 
into  our  lines  knowing  his  fate,  if  taken,  but  asking  mercy  for  his 
adjutant. 

The  court  having  maturely  considered  the  case,  after  hearing  all 
the  evidence,  together  with  the  statements  of  the  prisoners,  do  find 
them,  viz.,  Col.  Lawrence  Auton  Williams  and  Lieut.  Walter  G.  Peter, 
officers  of  the  Confederate  Army,  guilty  of  the  charge  of  being  spies, 
found  within  the  lines  of  the  United  States  Army  at  Franklin,  Ten 
nessee,  on  the  8th  day  of  June,  1863. 

THOS.  J.  JORDAN, 
Colonel  Ninth  Pennsylvania  Cavalry,  President  of  the  Commission. 

HENRY  C.  WHARTON, 
Lieutenant  of  Engineers,  Judge-Advocate. 

The  trial  ended.     Thus  it  stands  on  the  record. 
In  the  oft-quoted  letter  to  Colonel  Williams 's  sister, 
Col.  Carter  Van  Vleck,  member  of  the  court,  writes: 

The  court  was  called  together  and  your  brother  freely  confessed 
all  except  as  to  the  object  of  his  mission,  which  to  this  day  is  a  most 
mysterious  secret  to  us  all.  In  course  of  a  conversation  with  Colonel 
Watkins  your  brother  said  to  him,  "Why,  Watkins,  you  know  me. 
We  served  in  the  same  regiment  of  the  United  States  Army.  I  am 
he  that  was  Lieutenant  Williams."  Watkins  at  once  recognized  him. 

In  his  remarks  to  the  court  your  brother  said  that  he  had  under 
taken  the  enterprise  with  his  eyes  open  and  knew  what  his  fate  must 
be  if  he  was  discovered,  but  said  that  the  value  of  the  prize  at  which  he 

52 


"WILLIAMS,    C.S.A." 

grasped  fully  justified  the  fearful  hazard  he  had  made  to  gain  it,  and 
acknowledged  the  entire  justice  of  his  sentence,  and  said  that  he  had 
no  complaint  whatever  to  make.  He  at  no  time  denied  being  a  spy, 
but  only  denied  that  he  had  designs  against  Franklin.  I  believe  that 
he  said  the  truth ;  he  had  a  greater  prize  in  view.  He  asked  for  mercy 
for  Lieut.  Peter  on  account  of  his  youth  and  because  he  was  ignorant 
of  the  objects  or  dangers  of  the  mission,  but  said  that  he  had  no  right 
to  ask  for  mercy  for  himself,  as  he  knew  what  his  fate  must  be  if  con 
victed,  before  he  entered  upon  his  mission.  .  .  .  Your  brother  did  say 
that  he  intended  to  have  gone  to  Europe  immediately  if  he  had  been 
successful  in  his  undertaking. 

The  trial  had  lasted  scarce  an  hour;  when  it  was  at  an 
end  Colonel  Baird  sent  another  telegram  to  his  command 
ing  officer — a  very  different  message  from  the  thought 
less,  exultant  one,  with  its  flippant,  "a  little  hanging  would 
do  me  good" — which  had  just  preceded  it: 

FRANKLIN,  June  p,  1863. 
Gen.  Garfield,  Chief  of  Staff: 

Colonel  Watkins  says  Colonel  Williams  is  a  first  cousin  of  General 
Robert  E.  Lee,  and  he  says  so.  He  has  been  chief  of  artillery  on 
Bragg's  staff. 

We  are  consulting.  Must  I  hang  him?  If  you  can  direct  me  to 
send  him  somewhere  else,  I  would  like  it;  but,  if  not,  or  I  do  not  hear 
from  you,  they  will  be  executed.  This  dispatch  is  written  at  the  re 
quest  of  Colonel  Watkins,  who  detained  the  prisoners.  We  are  pre 
pared  for  a  fight.  J.  P.  BAIRD, 

Colonel,  Commanding. 

Within  the  hour  there  came  back  the  relentless  decree : 
HEADQUARTERS  DEPARTMENT  OF  THE  CUMBERLAND. 

MURFREESBOROUGH,   June  Q,   l86j — 4:40  A.M. 

Col.  J.  P.  Baird,  Franklin: 

The  general  ccmmanding  directs  that  the  two  spies,  if  found  guilty, 
be  hung  at  once,  thus  placing  it  beyond  the  possibility  of  Forrest's 
profiting  by  the  information  they  have  gained. 

FRANK  S.  BOND, 
Major  and  Aide-de-camp. 

S3 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

In  the  face  of  such  an  order  Colonel  Baird  could  only 
bow  his  head.  Day  was  dawning.  Loud,  clear  bugles 
shrilled  the  reveille  from  all  quarters  of  the  camp;  thin 
blue  spirals  rose  above  rekindled  embers ;  men,  fresh  from 
their  night's  rest,  streamed  out  of  tent  and  hut,  and 
stretched  and  shook  themselves  and  began  the  old  life  anew 
under  the  brightening  sky.  They  made  the  camp  hum 
and  buzz  with  shouted  jests  and  greetings  and  the  rough, 
loud  banterings  of  soldiers.  Then  grim  Rumor  rose  like  a 
carrion  bird  and  flapped  heavily  from  group  to  group, 
and  where  Rumor  had  paused  in  its  passing,  men's  voices 
grew  less  loud,  and  they  turned  and  stared  often  at  head 
quarters  with  curiousness  and  vague  trouble  in  their  eyes. 
Colonel  Baird  sat  haggard  and  listless  at  his  table,  wait 
ing.  Presently  an  orderly,  followed  by  the  chaplain,  ap 
peared.  He  was  the  Rev.  Robert  Taylor,  chaplain  of  the 
Seventy-eighth  Illinois,  and  he  too  has  written  to  the 
sister  of  Colonel  Williams — kindly,  gentle  letters  they  are, 
full  of  whatever  grains  of  comfort  there  might  be.  He 
tells  how  he  was  awakened  at  dawn  and  ordered  to  report 
immediately  to  headquarters,  and  how  he  learned  there 
for  the  first  time  what  had  happened  while  he  slept. 
The  prisoners  had  asked  for  him,  Colonel  Baird  said. 

It  must  have  been  that  Colonel  Williams  and  Lieuten 
ant  Peter  had  been  taken  away  when  their  examination  was 
at  an  end,  and  had  not  been  brought  in  again  after  the  de 
liberations  of  the  court,  for  Chaplain  Taylor  in  a  letter  writes : 

Colonel  Baird  went  with  me,  introduced  me,  and  announced  to 
them  their  sentence.  They  received  the  announcement  with  sadness, 
but  with  great  dignity  and  composure.  When  the  sentence  had  been 
announced  to  them  your  brother  asked  Colonel  B.  whether  or  not  this 
sentence  would  be  read  to  them  in  due  form  as  the  sentence  of  a  court 
martial,  and  I  think  he  added,  "The  charge  of  being  spies  we  deny." 

54 


"WILLIAMS,    C.S.A." 

They  asked  if  they  might  write  a  few  letters,  and  when 
paper  and  pens  were  brought  Chaplain  Taylor  and  Colonel 
Baird  withdrew  for  a  short  time. 

To  his  sister,  Colonel  Williams  began  his  letter:  "Do 
not  believe  that  I  am  a  spy ;  with  my  dying  breath  I  deny 
the  charge." 

The  rest  of  the  letter  is  made  up  of  hurried  messages 
to  family  and  friends — concise  statements  of  minor  business 
matters ;  no  sighings,  no  complaints  against  Fate. 

It  is  but  a  note,  written  on  one  side  of  a  small  sheet, 
inscribed  in  a  firm,  unfaltering  hand.  There  was  a  letter 
to  General  Bragg,  of  which  I  have  not  seen  even  a  copy, 
but  it,  too,  could  have  been  but  a  note  of  farewell;  all  the 
letters,  of  necessity,  had  to  be  carefully  read  before  send 
ing  through  the  lines.  The  last  letter,  of  which  the  copy 
is  in  a  woman's  hand,  was  written  to  the  lady  who  had 
promised  to  be  his  wife.  History  has  the  right  only  to 
these  words: 

When  this  reaches  you  I  will  be  no  more.  Had  I  succeeded  I  would 
have  been  able  to  marry  you  in  Europe  in  a  month.  The  fate  of  war 
has  decided  against  us.  I  have  been  condemned  as  a  spy — you  know 
I  am  not. 

When  the  brief  letters  were  finished  they  asked  for 
Colonel  Baird  again,  and  when  he  had  come  Colonel 
Williams  asked  if  he  might  send  a  telegram  to  General 
Rosecrans,  who  had  long  ago  known  his  father.  Baird 
eagerly  clutched  at  the  straw  of  hope,  and  together  they 

wrote  the  message: 

FRANKLIN,  June  p,  1863. 
General  Garfield,  Chief  of  Staff: 

Will  you  not  have  any  clemency  for  the  son  of  Captain  Williams, 
who  fell  at  Monterey,  Mexico?  As  my  dying  speech,  I  protest  our 
innocence  as  spies.  Save  also  my  friend, 

LAWRENCE  W.  ORTON  (formerly  W.  Orton  Williams) . 

55 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

I  send  this  as  a  dying  request.  The  men  are  condemned,  and  we 
are  preparing  for  execution.  They  also  prefer  to  be  shot.  If  you 
can  answer  before  I  get  ready,  do. 

J.  P.  BAIRD. 

No  answer  ever  came. 

In  the  United  Service  Magazine  of  twenty  years  ago 
Col.  William  F.  Prosser  writes  of  General  Rosecrans  in 
relation  to  this  unanswered  telegram: 

Being  a  man  of  tender  and  sympathetic  feeling,  he  was  somewhat 
apprehensive  that  his  judgment  might  be  overcome  by  appeals  for 
mercy;  therefore  when  he  retired  to  his  sleeping  apartment,  between 
three  and  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  gave  positive  instructions  to 
General  Garfield  to  have  his  former  orders  carried  out  promptly,  with 
directions  at  the  same  time  not  to  bring  him  any  more  telegrams, 
dispatches,  or  appeals  of  any  kind  whatever  on  the  subject. 

Pilate  had  washed  his  hands. 

Hours  passed,  restless,  anxious  hours  for  Colonel 
Baird;  hoping  against  hope,  he  yet  waited  for  an  answer 
to  his  message.  When  at  last  he  gave  up,  he  already 
risked  a  severe  reprimand;  his  mercy  and  pity  could  do 
no  more.  He  gave  the  order  for  the  execution,  and  the 
order  was  obeyed. 

In  the  forty-nine  years  that  have  passed  since  that  June 
morning  there  have  appeared  a  score  of  times  in  news 
paper  columns  the  letters  of  officers  and  men  who  that 
day  were  formed  in  hollow  square  down  by  the  Harpeth 
River,  and  who  stood  stern  and  silent  till  the  work  was 
done.  In  all  these  accounts  there  is  not  one  but  has 
(crudely  expressed  at  times)  its  note  of  respect  and  ad 
miration  and  pity.  But  of  them  all,  I  turn  once  again 
to  the  yellowed  leaves  of  Col.  Carter  Van  Vleck's  letter, 
and  copy  his  words: 

56 


"W.ILLIAMS,    C.S.A." 

Your  brother  died  with  the  courage  of  a  true  hero.  He  stepped 
upon  the  scaffold  with  as  much  composure  as  though  he  had  gone  there 
to  address  the  multitude.  There  was  no  faltering  in  his  step,  no 
tremor  in  his  nerves.  He  thanked  the  officers  for  his  kind  treatment, 
and  said  that  he  had  no  complaint  to  make;  that  one  of  the  cruel  fates 
of  war  had  befallen  him,  and  he  would  submit  to  it  like  a  man.  On 
the  scaffold  the  unfortunate  men  embraced  each  other  and  Lieutenant 
Peter  sobbed  and  said:  "Oh,  Colonel,  have  we  come  to  this!"  Your 
brother  at  once  checked  him  by  saying,  "Let  us  die  like  men."  And 
they  did  die  like  men,  with  the  heartfelt  sympathy  of  every  man  who 
saw  them  die. 

FRANKLIN,  June  p,  1863. 

General  Garfield,  Chief  of  Staff: 

The  men  have  been  tried,  found  guilty  and  executed,  in  compliance 
with  your  order.    There  is  no  appearance  of  enemy  yet. 
I  am,  ever  your  obedient  servant, 

J.  P.  BAIRD,  Colonel,  Commanding  Post. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  he  had  somewhat  regained  his 
composure,  Colonel  Baird  sent  the  last  despatch  of  this 
strange  series;  a  message  which,  had  it  been  sent  before, 
and  which,  had  it  been  heeded,  might  have  given  time 
for  the  solving  of  a  mystery  which  will  now  never  be 
solved : 

FRANKLIN,  June  p,  1863. 
Brigadier-General  Garfield: 

Dispatch  received  of  rebel  account  of  fight.  No  truth  in  it.  The 
officers  I  executed  this  morning,  in  my  opinion,  were  not  ordinary  spies, 
and  had  some  mission  more  important  than  finding  out  my  situation. 

They  came  near  dark,  asked  no  questions  about  forces,  and  did  not 
attempt  to  inspect  works,  and,  after  they  confessed,  insisted  they  were 
not  spies,  in  the  ordinary  sense,  and  that  they  wanted  no  information 
about  this  place.  Said  they  were  going  to  Canada  and  something 
about  Europe;  not  clear.  We  found  on  them  memorandum  of  com 
manding  officers  and  their  assistant  adjutant-generals  in  Northern 
States.  Though  they  admitted  the  justice  of  the  sentence  and  died 
like  soldiers,  they  would  not  disclose  their  true  object.  Their  conduct 
was  very  singular  indeed;  I  can  make  nothing  of  it. 

I  am,  General,  J.  P.  BAIRD, 

Colonel,  Commanding. 

57 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

There  seems  to  have  been  no  one  who  ever  believed 
these  young  officers  to  have  been  common  spies.  In  his 
weekly  letters  to  the  New  York  Herald,  Mr.  W.  F.  G. 
Shanks,  war  correspondent  in  the  field  with  the  Army  of 
the  Cumberland,  writes: 

They  did  not  explain  upon  what  grounds  they  made  the  plea  of  not 
being  spies  under  these  circumstances.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  they 
did  not,  as  it  might  have  explained  their  reason  for  coming  into  our 
lines.  No  such  unimportant  matter  as  a  proposed  attack  on  Franklin 
could  have  induced  two  officers  of  their  rank  and  character  to  under 
take  so  hazardous  an  enterprise. 

No  plausible  reasons  have  been  given  explaining  the  expedition  upon 
which  these  men  were  engaged;  probably  will  never  be  explained. 
Were  not  anxious  in  regard  to  works  and  troops  at  Franklin.  .  .  .  Some 
have  imagined  that  their  mission  was  one  to  the  copperheads  of  the 
North.  .  .  .  These  are  the  first  rebel  officers  hung  during  the  war.  The 
case  will  form  a  precedent.  Col.  Baird  regrets  that  the  trial  was  not 
more  deliberate,  but  the  Government  has  approved  and  sustained  the 
action.  The  President  has  telegraphed  to  General  Rosecrans  his  ap 
proval  of  the  prompt  action. 

This  same  correspondent  tells  of  the  sending  from 
Murfreesborough  of  the  effects  of  Colonel  Williams  and 
Lieutenant  Peter  to  the  Confederate  lines.  The  flag  of 
truce  was  halted  eight  miles  out  by  the  vedettes  of  the 
Fifty-first  Alabama  Mounted  Infantry,  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  Webb  commanding. 

In  the  course  of  informal  conversation  one  of  the  Con 
federate  officers  said  that  he  was  sorry  for  Orton,  but  he 
had  played  the  spy,  and  had  been  hung  according  to 
military  law. 

Colonel  Webb  curtly  corrected  him,  and  said  that  noth 
ing  of  the  sort  was  admitted.  He  abruptly  closed  the 
conversation.  It  seems  useless  to  consider  Franklin  as 
aught  but  a  stepping-stone  on  which  they  tripped  and  fell. 

58 


"WILLIAMS,    C.S.A." 

There  are  three  statements  in  this  article  which  must 
be  corrected  here.  Lawrence  Orton  Williams  was  not 
his  name ;  why  he  changed  it  from  William  Orton  Williams 
is  another  mystery  which  will  never  be  revealed;  it  was  a 
change  which  has  puzzled  and  distressed  relatives  and 
friends  to  this  day.  Only  four  of  the  many  letters  he 
wrote  his  sister  during  the  war  ever  got  through  the  lines. 
In  one  of  them,  the  letter  of  December  19,  1862,  he  makes 
this  single  unexplained  allusion  to  the  change.  He 
closes:  .  .  .  "your  affectionate  brother  (I  have  changed 
my  name),  Lawrence  Williams  Orton." 

Above  all,  that  he  should  have  taken  the  given  name  of 
his  elder  brother,  serving  as  major  in  the  Federal  army, 
caused  endless  confusion  in  newspapers,  North  and  South. 
An  incident  which  may  have  been  the  cause  of  this  change 
of  name  occurred  while  Colonel  Williams  was  serving 
under  Bishop-General  Polk,  shortly  before  Shiloh.  Colonel 
Williams  with  his  strict  ideas  of  military  discipline — new 
and  distasteful  to  volunteer  soldiers — became  involved 
with  a  private,  and  the  result  was  the  death  of  the  soldier. 

Colonel  Williams's  report  of  the  affair  concluded  with 
the  words:  "For  his  ignorance,  I  pitied  him;  for  his  in 
solence,  I  forgave  him;  for  his  insubordination,  I  slew 
him."1  An  investigation  was  commenced,  but  in  the 
confusion  resulting  from  the  sudden  evacuation  of 
Columbus,  Kentucky,  it  was  dropped;  Colonel  (then 
Captain)  Williams  was  merely  transferred  to  another 
command.  But  the  affair  had  made  him  so  unpopular 
with  the  soldiers  that,  in  spite  of  his  gallantry  soon  after 
at  Shiloh,  for  which  he  was  twice  mentioned  in  general 

1  From  Colonel  (now  Major-General)  Wm.  H.  Carter's  From  Yorktown 
to  Santiago  with  the  Sixth  United  States  Cavalry. 

59 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

orders,  when  he  was  assigned  to  the  colonelcy  of  a 
cavalry  regiment  under  General  Van  Dorn,  the  officers  and 
men  of  this  new  command  refused  to  serve  under  him, 
and  he  was  again  transferred. 

Perhaps  it  was  then  that  he  changed  his  name.  That 
it  had  not  been  changed  until  then  is  evidenced  by  his 
sword.  In  the  Confederate  correspondence  published 
in  the  Official  Records  is  the  report  of  Col.  J.  J.  Neely, 
of  Forrest's  Cavalry — June  29, 1864:  "A  sabre  was  cap 
tured  [La  Fayette,  Georgia]  by  Captain  Deberry  .  .  . 
bearing  the  inscription:  'W.  Orton  Williams,  C.S.A., 
Chief  of  Artillery,  Shiloh,  April  6,  1862. '" 

How  came  this  sword  with  the  Federals?  It  was  not 
the  sword  that  he  wore  at  Franklin,  and  which  he  is  said 
to  have  presented  to  Colonel  Watkins — Colonel  Van 
Vleck  would  never  have  forgotten  such  an  inscription  as 
that.  His  very  sword  had  its  mystery. 

Colonel  Williams  was  not  a  first  cousin  of  General 
Robert  E.  Lee,  but  of  General  Lee's  wife,  who  was  of  the 
Custis  family — a  direct  descendant  of  Martha  Washington. 

Nor  was  Colonel  Williams  on  General  Scott's  staff  in 
Mexico.  His  father  fell  at  the  head  of  his  column  at 
Monterey;  the  son  was  on  the  staff  of  General  Scott, 
Commander-in-chief  of  the  army,  in  Washington  in  1861. 
Because  of  his  continued  visits  to  Arlington — where  his 
sister  made  her  home — after  General  Robert  E.  Lee  had 
joined  the  Confederacy,  he  was  sent  to  Governors  Island, 
New  York,  and  kept  there  until  any  information  he  might 
have  had  to  aid  the  Confederacy  was  rendered  useless  by 
time.  June  10,  1861,  he  resigned,  to  swing  his  sword  for 
the  South,  and  to  die  at  Franklin,  Tennessee,  as  a  spy. 

What  was  his  mission?  He  had  failed;  why  did  he 

60 


"WILLIAMS,    C.S.A." 

not  dignify  his  act  by  giving  it  the  importance  it  deserved  ? 
Orton  Williams 's  bravery  was  more  than  physical — he  was 
willing  to  do  more  than  die  for  his  Cause;  he  was  willing 
to  live  through  the  pages  that  men  call  History  as  a  spy 
rather  than  block  the  pathway  of  the  man,  and  the  man, 
and  the  man  after  that  one,  if  need  be,  who  he  knew 
would  follow  him.  Who  knew  his  mission  ?  Not  his  com 
panion;  not  General  Joe  Wheeler,  on  whose  staff  he  had 
been  but  two  months;  not  even  General  Bragg,  to  whom 
he  wrote  farewell — not  if  the  press  of  that  day  may  be 
believed.  The  daily  Richmond  Examiner  of  July  3, 
1863,  in  commenting  bitterly  on  the  case,  says: 

None  of  our  commanders  in  Tennessee  are  aware  of  any  such  mis 
sion  being  undertaken  by  these  officers,  which  could  only  have  been 
at  the  suggestion  of  a  superior  officer,  or  certainly  with  some  knowledge 
on  his  part  of  the  object  of  such  an  enterprise  within  the  enemy's  lines. 

The  Chattanooga  Rebel  of  June  17,  1863: 

Lawrence  Orton  Williams  was  one  of  the  most  honorable  officers 
in  this  service.  .  .  .  The  expedition  that  ended  so  tragically  was  un 
dertaken  on  his  own  account  and  was  unknown  to  his  brother  officers. 

To  judge  by  the  following  letter,  Colonel  Williams  was 
known  to  Judah  P.  Benjamin,  then  Secretary  of  War  of 
the  Confederacy,  of  whose  letter,  found  among  the 
Confederate  Correspondence,  this  is  a  part: 

Sir:  I  have  received  your  several  communications  from  Capt. 
Williams,  and  he  has  been  detained  a  day  or  two  to  enable  us  to  ob 
tain  such  information  of  the  late  engagement  at  Fort  Donelson  and  the 
movement  of  our  troops  as  would  authorize  a  definite  decision  as  to 
our  future  movements.  (To  General  Polk  at  Columbus,  Ky.  Feb. 
20,  '62.) 

Thirty-four  years  later  there  came  to  light,  among  a  dead 
man's  private  letters,  another  letter  of  Secretary  Benja- 

61 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

min's  (at  that  time  Secretary  of  State),  a  letter  written 
but  three  weeks  after  Colonel  Williams  died  at  Franklin, 
of  which  this  is  a  part  and  substance  (published  in  the 
Richmond  Times  of  July  16,  1896,  republished  in  the 
Papers  of  the  Southern  Historical  Society,  Vol.  XXIV) : 

DEPARTMENT  OF  STATE,  RICHMOND,  July  j,  1863. 

[To  Lieutenant  J.  L.  Capstan.] 
Sir: 

You  have,  in  accordance  with  your  proposal  made  to  this  depart 
ment,  been  detailed  by  the  Secretary  of  War  for  special  service  under 
my  orders.  The  duty  which  is  proposed  to  entrust  to  you  is  that  of  a 
private  and  confidential  agent  of  this  government,  for  the  purpose  of 
proceeding  to  Ireland,  and  there  using  all  legitimate  means  to  en 
lighten  the  population  as  to  the  true  nature  and  character  of  the  contest 
now  waged  in  this  continent,  with  the  view  of  defeating  the  attempts 
made  by  the  agents  of  the  United  States  to  obtain  in  Ireland  recruits 
for  their  army. 

It  is  understood  that  under  the  guise  of  assisting  needy  persons  to 
emigrate,  a  regular  organization  has  been  formed  of  agents  in  Ireland 
who  leave  untried  no  methods  of  deceiving  the  laboring  population 
into  emigrating  for  the  ostensible  purpose  of  seeking  employment  in 
the  United  States,  but  really  for  recruiting  in  the  Federal  armies.  .  .  . 

Throw  yourself  as  much  as  possible  into  close  communication  with 
the  people  where  the  agents  of  our  enemies  are  at  work.  Inform  them, 
by  every  means  you  can  devise,  of  the  true  pu  pose  of  those  who  seek  to 
induce  them  to  emigrate.  Explain  to  them  the  nature  of  the  war 
fare  which  is  carried  on  here.  Picture  to  them  the  fate  of  their  un 
happy  countrymen,  who  have  already  fallen  victims  to  the  arts  of  the 
Federals.  Relate  to  them  the  story  of  Meagher's  Brigade,  its  forma 
tion  and  its  fate.  Explain  to  them  that  they  will  be  called  on  to  meet 
Irishmen  in  battle,  and  thus  to  imbrue  their  hands  in  the  blood  of 
their  own  friends,  and  perhaps  kinsmen,  in  a  quarrel  which  does  not 
concern  them,  and  in  which  all  the  feelings  of  a  common  humanity 
should  induce  them  to  refuse  taking  part  against  us.  Contrast  the 
policy  of  the  Federal  and  Confederate  states.  .  .  . 

In  this  war  such  has  been  the  hatred  of  the  New  England  Puritans 
to  Irishmen  and  Catholics,  that  in  several  instances  the  chapels  and 
places  of  worship  of  the  Irish  Catholics  have  been  burnt  or  shamefully 
desecrated  by  the  regiments  of  volunteers  from  New  England.  These 

62 


"WILLIAMS,    C.S.A. 


9) 


facts  have  been  published  in  Northern  papers,  take  the  New  York 
Freeman's  Journal,  and  you  will  see  shocking  details,  not  coming  from 
Confederate  sources,  but  from  the  officers  of  the  United  States  them 
selves. 

Lay  all  these  matters  fully  before  the  people  who  are  now  called  on  to 

join  these  ferocious  persecuters  in  the  destruction  of  this  nation 

I  am,  sir,  respectfully, 

Your  obedient  servant, 
(Signed)  J.  P.  BENJAMIN, 

Secretary  of  State. 

Colonel  Williams  may  not  have  been  Lieutenant 
Capstan's  predecessor,  but  who  knows  but  that  he  too 
had  had  a  personal  letter — which  was  not  a  War  Depart 
ment  order — from  Judah  P.  Benjamin,  Secretary  of  State 
of  the  Confederacy? 

Colonel  Williams  went  to  Franklin,  Tennessee,  where  he 
was  hanged.  I  believe  that  that  is  all  which  we  shall 
ever  know. 


MISS  VAN  LEW 

ON  a  bronze  tablet  set  in  the  face  of  a  great  gray  stone 
in  the  Shockhoe  Hill  Cemetery  of  Richmond,  Virginia, 
there  is  carved  the  inscription: 

Elizabeth  L.  Van  Lew. 

1818.  IQOO. 

She  risked  everything  that  is  dear  to  man — 
friends,  fortune,  comfort,  health,  life  itself,  all 
for  the  one  absorbing  desire  of  her  heart — that 
slavery  might  be  abolished  and  the  Union  preserved. 


This  Boulder 

from  the  Capitol  Hill  in  Boston  is  a  tribute 
from  Massachusetts  friends. 

Miss  Van  Lew,  a  Richmond  woman,  was  a  spy  for  the 
Federal  government — the  most  important  spy  of  the 
Rebellion,  inasmuch  as  her  work  merited  General  Grant's 
tribute,  ''You  have  sent  me  the  most  valuable  informa 
tion  received  from  Richmond  during  the  war."  For  four 
long  years,  without  respite,  she  faced  death  to  obtain 
that  information;  day  after  day  suspected,  spied  upon, 
threatened,  persecuted,  she  worked  with  a  courage  far 
higher  than  the  excitement-mad  valor  of  battle-fields. 

The  greater  part  of  the  military  information  received 
from  Richmond  by  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  was  collected 
and  transmitted  by  Miss  Van  Lew.  She  established 

64 


MISS    VAN    LEW 
From  a  war-time  photograph 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

five  secret  stations  for  forwarding  her  cipher  despatches 
— a  chain  of  relay  points  whose  farther  end  was  the  head 
quarters  of  General  George  H.  Sharpe  (the  authority  for 
these  statements),  Chief  of  the  Bureau  of  Military  In 
formation,  but  the  Richmond  end  of  the  chain  was  the 
old  Van  Lew  mansion.  There  she  received  and  harbored 
the  secret  agents  who  stole  in  from  the  Federal  army; 
when  no  Federal  agents  could  reach  her  she  sent  her  own 
servants  as  messengers  through  the  Confederate  armies. 
There,  in  the  Van  Lew  house  in  the  heart  of  Richmond, 
she  concealed  many  of  the  escaped  Union  prisoners  from 
Castle  Thunder,  the  Libby,  and  Belle  Isle;  there  she 
planned  aid  for  those  who  remained  in  the  prisons,  to 
whom  she  sent  or  carried  food  and  books  and  clothing; 
for  their  relief  she  poured  out  her  money — thousands  of 
dollars — until  all  her  convertible  property  was  gone. 
Clerks  in  the  Confederate  War  and  Navy  departments 
were  in  her  confidence;  counsel  for  Union  sympathizers 
on  trial  by  the  Confederacy  were  employed  by  her  money ; 
for  a  long,  long  time  she  represented  all  that  was  left  of 
the  power  of  the  United  States  government  in  the  city  of 
Richmond. 

These  statements  of  General  Sharpens  were  made  in  a 
letter  which  was  written  to  recommend  that  Miss  Van 
Lew  be  reimbursed  by  the  government  to  the  amount  of 
$15,000;  the  money  was  never  collected;  she  had  given 
no  thought  to  recompense,  but  only  "that  slavery  might 
be  abolished  and  the  Union  preserved" — for  that  she  had 
risked  "all  that  is  dear  to  man";  and  all  that  she  risked 

-"friends,  fortune,  comfort,  all  but  life  itself" — she 
lost. 

This  is  her  story.     It  is  written  from  the  remains  of  her 

5  65 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

diary,  which,  because  of  its  menace,  lay  for  months  buried 
in  the  ground,  and  which  lost  many  pages  expurgated  by 
its  author  as  being  unsafe  even  there;  other  manuscript 
of  hers  there  is — more  than  a  thousand  pages,  an  un 
published  volume,  part  history,  part  treatise,  here  and 
there  personal  memoir;  it  is  written  from  old  letters; 
from  newspapers — Northern  and  Southern;  from  the 
Official  Records  of  the  Union  and  Confederate  Armies; 
and  from  the  statements  of  men  and  women  who  knew 
Miss  Van  Lew  long  ago. 

There  are  faded  pages  which  tell  of  her  childhood, 
how  she  was  sent  North  to  school — to  Philadelphia,  her 
mother's  early  home.  There,  a  school-girl,  she  accepted 
those  principles  which  were  to  determine  the  course  of 
her  whole  life;  she  went  back  at  last  to  Virginia  an  un 
wavering  abolitionist.  She  gave  freedom  to  nine  of  the 
Van  Lew  slaves;  others  were  bought,  that  they  might  be 
reunited  with  a  husband  or  a  wife  already  in  the  Van 
Lew  possession. 

There  are  tales  of  the  state  and  splendor  in  which  the 
family  lived,  in  the  now  famous  Van  Lew  mansion  (which 
still  stands  on  Church  Hill,  the  highest  of  the  seven  hills 
of  Richmond).  There  were  balls  and  receptions  in  the 
great  house,  garden-parties  in  the  wonderful  gardens, 
journeyings  in  the  coach  drawn  by  six  snowy  horses  to 
the  White  Sulphur  Springs  and  other  resorts  of  the 
day.  Great  men  and  distinguished  families  were  their 
guests  and  intimates — Bishop  Moore  and  Chief  Justice 
Marshall,  the  Lees,  the  Robinsons,  Wickhams,  Adamses, 
Cabels,  Marshalls,  Carringtons;  Fredrika  Bremer,  the 
Swedish  novelist,  visited  at  the  Van  Lew  house  and  wrote 
of  it  and  its  household  in  her  Homes  in  ike  New  World; 

66 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

Jenny  Lind  at  the  height  of  her  career  sang  in  the  great 
parlor;  Edgar  Allan  Poe  there  read  aloud  "The  Raven"; 
and,  after  an  interval  of  years,  there  came  the  last  great 
guest,  General  Ulysses  S.  Grant. 

And  so  the  time  is  passed  over  in  a  great  sweep  of  years ; 
Betty  Van  Lew  has  become  a  woman  of  forty,  a  woman 
of  delicate  physique  and  a  small  but  commanding  figure; 
brilliant,  accomplished,  resolute,  a  woman  of  great  per 
sonality  and  of  infinite  charm.  For  her  the  years  of  quiet 
ended  when  Colonel  Robert  E.  Lee,  then  of  the  United 
States  army,  stormed  Harper's  Ferry  engine-house  and 
captured  John  Brown.  "From  that  time  on,"  she  says, 
"our  people  were  in  a  palpable  state  of  war."  "We" 
— "our" — in  all  her  writings  the  South  is  ever  in  the  first 
person ;  it  is  the  token  that  her  love  for  Virginia  never  was 
forgotten. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  she  began  her  work  for  the 
Federal  government ;  she  wrote  letter  after  letter  to  Wash 
ington  describing  conditions  in  the  South — letters  of 
warning,  of  advice;  these  letters  she  sent  through  the 
mails. 

A  year  passed;  winter  came,  and  the  South,  State  by 
State,  began  to  secede.  Sumter  was  fired  upon;  the  first 
flush  of  fever — the  John  Brown  Raid — had  become  the 
delirium  of  civil  war. 

A  greater  decision  than  slavery  or  abolition  was  de 
manded  of  Betty  Van  Lew,  openly  and  fearlessly  she  made 
her  choice — the  Union!  On  the  streets  she  would  im 
pulsively  enter  into  argument  with  strangers,  "speaking 
impassionedly " ;  for  years  she  had  been  known  as  an 
abolitionist,  now  all  Richmond  knew  her  for  a  Unionist, 
audaciously  outspoken.  Then,  three  days  after  the  little 

67 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

garrison  marched  out  of  charred  and  smoking  Sumter, 
Virginia  passed  the  Ordinance  of  Secession,  and  Rich 
mond  went  war  mad. 

"Such  flag-making — such  flag-presentations!"  (Miss 
Van  Lew  has  written).  "The  drum,  the  fife,  and  Dixie; 
for  my  life  I  would  not  have  dared  to  play  Yankee  Doodle, 
Hail,  Columbia,  and  the  Star-Spangled  Banner,  our  hallowed 
national  airs.  The  blood-stained  Marseillaise  resounded 
through  our  streets.  .  .  .  My  country,  oh,  my  country! 
God  help  us,  those  were  sorry  days." 

Troops  began  to  pour  in  from  other  States,  and  Vir 
ginia  became  one  great  military  camp.  "Help  us  make 
shirts  for  our  soldiers,"  the  ladies  of  Richmond  cried  to 
the  Van  Lews;  mother  and  daughter  resolutely  refused, 
and  their  lifelong  persecution  began.  Surprise,  sneers, 
then  threats,  till  at  last  they  carried  to  Camp  Lee  books 
and  flowers —  "innocent  'aid  and  comfort'"  that  for  the 
time  being  added  greatly  to  their  own. 

The  ladies  of  Richmond  sewed  and  knitted  for  the 
Confederacy,  and  shot  with  pistols  at  a  mark;  Miss  Van 
Lew  wrote  despatches  for  the  Union — specific  information 
of  Confederate  troops,  their  numbers  and  their  move 
ments.  She  had  ceased  to  use  the  mails;  the  despatches 
now  went  North  by  special  messenger.  So  the  hot  tu 
multuous  days  of  summer  passed ;  Bull  Run  was  fought, 
and  Richmond  for  the  first  time  filled  with  wounded 
Southern  men  and  wretched  Northern  prisoners.  Here 
at  last  was  work  to  do;  from  one  official  to  another  she 
hurried,  begging  that  she  might  nurse  the  wounded  Union 
soldiers;  until  at  last,  from  General  Winder,  Provost- 
Marshal-General  of  Richmond,  she  obtained  "per 
mission  to  visit  the  prisoners  and  to  send  them  books, 

68 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

luxuries,  delicacies,  and  what  she  may  wish. ' '     Thus  her 
four  years'  service  began. 

The  Libby  Prison  was  her  special  care;  it  stood  at  the 
base  of  Church  Hill,  almost  beneath  her  very  door. 
There,  in  command,  she  found  Lieutenant  Todd,  brother 
of  Mrs.  Lincoln,  and  won  his  "kind  feelings"  for  herself 
by  gifts  of  buttermilk  and  gingerbread.  Castle  Thunder 
—"Particular  Hell"— with  Caphart,  "Anti-Christ  Cap- 
hart,"  in  control;  Belle  Isle  in  its  stockade  lying  like  a 
bleached  bone  in  the  midst  of  the  turbulent  river — for 
four  bitter  years  she  was  known  at  them  all. 

From  the  moment  that  she  gained  access  to  the  prisoners 
her  despatches  to  the  government  increased  a  hundred 
fold  in  accuracy  and  value ;  for,  though  her  hospital  and 
prison  ministrations  were  sincere  and  genuine  for  human 
ity's  sake,  they  were  also  a  cloak  to  cover  her  real  mission : 
Miss  Van  Lew  above  all  else  was  a  spy. 

The  Federal  prisoners  furnished  her  with  much  more 
information  than  might  be  supposed  possible;  from  the 
many- windowed  prisons  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  and  from 
within  the  stockade  of  Belle  Isle,  much  that  went  on  could 
be  observed;  they  accurately  estimated  the  strength  of 
the  passing  troops  and  supply- trains,  whose  probable 
destination  they  shrewdly  conjectured  from  the  roads 
by  which  the  Confederates  left  the  town ;  then,  too,  there 
were  snatches  of  conversations  to  be  overheard  between 
surgeons  in  the  hospital  or  between  the  prison  guards. 
Mere  scraps  of  information  all,  but  of  infinite  value  to 
Miss  Van  Lew  when  combined  with  other  scraps  from 
here  and  there — some  confirming,  some  setting  an  error 
right,  some  opening  inquiry  into  fresh  lines. 

Her  ministrations  were  indeed  genuine.     Clothes,  food, 

69 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

books,  money,  all  dealt  out  with  a  lavish,  self -forgetting 
hand,  were  but  part  of  her  great  kindliness;  letters  that 
had  no  part  in  war — home  letters — she  secretly  carried 
past  the  censor;  what  this  benefaction  meant  no  one  but 
him  who  has  been  a  prisoner  can  understand.  Among  her 
effects  there  are  many  little  mementoes,  trifles,  toys,  but 
all  that  they  had  to  give — napkin-rings,  cuff-links,  but 
tons,  patiently  and  laboriously  carved  from  bones  that 
had  been  gnawed  for  the  last  morsel  of  food. 

One  deed  of  kindness  at  this  time  bore  golden  fruit 
twenty  years  after  the  war.  Thirteen  men  accused  of 
piracy  had  been  tried  in  New  York  City,  convicted,  and 
sentenced  to  be  hanged.  They  saved  themselves  by  their 
claim  that  they  were  Confederate  privateersmen  and 
must  be  treated  as  prisoners  of  war;  the  Confederate 
government,  to  which  they  appealed,  at  once  espoused 
their  cause;  thirteen  Federal  officers  were  thrown  into  a 
dungeon  of  Libby  Prison  to  await  the  execution  of  these 
men;  the  thirteen  officers  were  then  to  be  hanged  in 
reprisal.  Miss  Van  Lew  secretly  communicated  with 
them  and  with  their  families;  she  smuggled  in  to  the 
hostages  letters  and  money  from  home,  gave  them  money 
of  her  own,  and  at  last  sent  North  the  glad  news  that  they 
had  been  restored  to  the  footing  of  prisoners  of  war. 

Colonel  Paul  Revere  of  the  Twentieth  Massachusetts 
Regiment  was  one  of  these  officers,  and  it  was  his  relatives 
in  Boston,  the  friends  which  he  had  made  for  Miss  Van 
Lew,  who  long  years  later  were  to  come  to  her  aid  in  her 
greatest  hour  of  need. 

And  so  throughout  the  war  there  passed  between  Miss 
Van  Lew  and  the  prisoners  an  almost  uninterrupted  ex 
change  of  question  and  answer,  by  which  was  derived 

70 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

much  of  the  information  that  Miss  Van  Lew  furnished 
to  the  Federal  armies.  In  the  prisons  the  information 
was  conveyed  in  a  score  of  ways — whispered  words, 
friendly  little  notes  with  hidden  meanings  in  words  harm 
less  to  a  censor's  eye,  books  which  were  loaned  or  re 
turned  with  here  and  there  a  word  or  a  page  number 
faintly  underscored,  questions  and  answers  that  were 
concealed  in  baskets  of  food.  There  was  one  curious 
old  French  contrivance,  a  metal  platter  with  a  double 
bottom,  originally  intended  to  hold  hot  water  beneath 
the  plate  to  keep  the  contents  warm.  Its  frequent  use 
and  clumsy  appearance  aroused  a  keen-eyed  guard's 
suspicions;  Miss  Van  Lew,  turning  away  with  the  empty 
plate  one  day,  heard  the  threat  he  muttered  to  a  fellow- 
guard.  Within  a  day  or  two  the  platter  was  again  pre 
sented  at  the  prison  door. 

'Til  have  to  examine  that,"  the  sentry  said. 

"Take  it,  then,"  Miss  Van  Lew  replied,  and  deftly 
slipping  the  shawl  from  around  it  she  placed  the  plate 
suddenly  in  his  hands;  that  day  the  double  bottom  con 
tained  no  secret  messages,  but  was  filled  with  water 
blistering  hot,  and  he  dropped  it  with  a  roar  of  pain. 

Yet  for  the  most  part  she  had  little  trouble  with  the 
soldiery;  "Crazy  Bet"  they  called  her,  and  let  her  wander 
about  within  the  prisons  almost  at  will;  they  laughed  as- 
she  passed  singing  softly  to  herself  or  muttering  mean 
ingless  words. 

For  this  gentlewoman  had  utterly  submerged  self  in  a 
passionate  love  of  country;  she  was  as  one  inspired  by  a 
mighty  ideal;  there  was  nothing  which  she  would  not 
herself  endure  that  "slavery  might  be  abolished  and  the 
Union  preserved."  Little  by  little  she  reared  and  fos- 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

tered  the  belief  that  she  was  harmlessly  insane;  "Crazy 
Bet"  she  became,  and  the  bitter  role  was  unflinchingly 
borne  and  cunningly  sustained.  In  another  the  part 
would  have  been  unconvincing,  suspicious,  but  for  her 
the  way  had  been  already  paved ;  her  abolition  sentiments 
— her  love  and  labors  for  the  negro  race — had  long  marked 
her  as  "eccentric,"  "queer";  it  was  but  a  step  further  to 
brand  her  "crazed." 

Now  and  then,  indeed,  the  authorities,  for  one  reason 
or  another,  revoked  her  permit  to  visit  the  prisons;  then 
she  would  go  to  General  Winder  or  to  the  office  of  the 
Secretary  of  War,  and  sooner  or  later  win  it  back  again. 

And  so,  by  flattery  and  cajolery,  by  strategy  or  by  the 
charm  of  personality,  she  succeeded  most  of  the  time  in 
remaining  in  the  good  graces  of  the  authorities;  to  the 
minor  officials  and  the  soldiery  she  was  only  harmless 
"Crazy  Bet,"  and  they  gave  her  little  heed;  but  to  the 
people  of  Richmond  she  was  still  Miss  Van  Lew,  a  South 
ern  woman  who  had  turned  against  her  neighbors  and 
against  the  South;  and  as  the  war  lengthened  and  bore 
more  heavily  upon  them,  their  resentment  turned  to 
implacable  hatred. 

"The  threats,  the  scowls,  the  frowns  of  an  infuriated 
community — who  can  write  of  them?"  she  wrote.  "I 
have  had  brave  men  shake  their  fingers  in  my  face  and 
say  terrible  things.  We  had  threats  of  being  driven 
away,  threats  of  fire,  and  threats  of  death.  .  .  .  'You 
dare  to  show  sympathy  for  any  of  those  prisoners!'  said 
a  gentleman.  'I  would  shoot  them  down  as  I  would 
blackbirds — and  there  is  something  on  foot  up  against 
you  now!'  About  the  last  week  in  July  [1861]  the  press 
and  people  became  so  violent  that  no  one  was  permitted 

72 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

to  visit  the  prisons  or  do  anything  for  their  relief."  The 
"violence  of  the  press"  is  manifested  in  clippings  of 
editorials  found  among  her  papers: 

"RAPPED  OVER  THE  KNUCKS" 

One  of  the  city  papers  contained,  Monday,  a  word  of  exhortation 
to  certain  females  of  Southern  residence  (and  perhaps  birth)  but  of 
decidedly  Northern  and  Abolition  proclivities.  The  creatures  though 
specially  alluded  to  were  not  named.  ...  If  such  people  do  not  wish 
to  be  exposed  and  dealt  with  as  alien  enemies  to  the  country,  they 
would  do  well  to  cut  stick  while  they  can  do  so  with  safety  to  their 
worthless  carcasses. 

On  the  margin,  in  faded  ink,  there  is  written:  "These 
ladies  were  my  mother  and  myself — God  knows  it  was  but 
little  we  could  do."  After  a  while  the  visits  were  quietly 
resumed,  and  except  to  let  some  spasm  of  the  people's 
rage  die  down  her  work  for  the  captives  continued  through 
out  the  war. 

Spring  came,  and,  with  its  coming,  McClellan  at  the 
head  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  swept  up  the  Peninsula 
to  Richmond's  very  doors.  The  houses  shook  with  the 
cannonading,  and  from  their  roofs  the  people  could  see 
the  bursting  of  the  shells. 

There  are  pages  of  description  in  the  diary  of  Miss 
Van  Lew  telling  of  the  battle  she  witnessed  as  she  rode 
in  the  rear  of  the  Confederate  army — "the  bright  rush  of 
Life,  the  hurry  of  Death  on  the  battle-field";  there  are 
pages  of  exultation  at  the  sight  of  deliverance  so  near; 
and  of  how,  "with  new  matting  and  pretty  curtains  we 
prepared  a  chamber  to  be  General  McClellan's  room." 
Then  came  the  Seven  Days,  and  the  onrushing  Federal 
tide  slowly  turned,  and  ebbed,  and  drew  away  over  the 
hills;  and  bitter  disappointment  and  dead  hope  were 

73 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

locked  in  "McClellan's  room,"  which  Miss  Van  Lew  had 
prepared  for  him,  and  which  was  not  to  be  opened  again 
for  many  and  many  a  day. 

Richmond  gave  a  great  gasp  of  relief  and  joy — that 
turned  to  sighing,  that  ended  in  a  sob ;  for  night  and  day, 
for  many  days  and  many  nights,  the  streets  re-echoed 
with  the  ceaseless  roll  of  wheels  as  Richmond's  sons  came 
home;  "the  air  was  fetid  with  the  presence  of  the  wounded 
and  the  dead." 

Then  the  city  drearily  settled  itself  back  between  the 
millstones — upper  and  nether — powerful  North  and  im 
poverished  South;  and  the  stones  slowly  turned  in  the 
pitiless  grind  of  war. 

Miss  Van  Lew  tirelessly  worked  on.  Through  the 
stifling  summer  nights  she  schemed  and  planned  and  con 
ferred  secretly  with  the  handful  of  Richmond's  Unionists. 
Disguised  as  a  common  farm-hand  (the  buckskin  leggings, 
one-piece  skirt  and  waist  of  cotton,  and  the  huge  calico 
sunbonnet  were  found  among  her  effects  and  are  in  exist 
ence  to  this  day),  a  little,  lonely,  unnoticed  figure,  she 
stole  about  in  the  night  on  her  secret  missions.  Through 
the  blazing  days  of  summer  she  worked ;  in  the  ill-stocked 
markets  she  bargained  for  the  food  that  sick  men  need 
—paying  for  it  with  money,  that,  after  a  time,  she  could 
so  ill  afford  to  give;  in  the  reeking  prisons  and  the  fever- 
ridden  wards,  in  the  unfriendly  crowds  of  the  city  streets, 
she  sought  and  found  the  recompense  of  her  toil — the 
"information"  that  was  inestimably  to  aid  in  saving  the 
Union. 

Information  came  from  another  source — from  the  Con 
federate  officers  and  officials  themselves,  many  of  whom, 
notwithstanding  the  animosities  and  suspicions  which 

74 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

the  townspeople,  the  non-combatants,  felt  for  the  Van 
Lews — continued  to  call  there  and  were  entertained  by 
them  throughout  the  war.  In  the  after-dinner  conversa 
tion  directed  by  a  clever  woman,  many  a  young  officer  un 
wittingly  revealed  much,  the  importance  of  which  he 
never  realized,  much  that  in  itself  was  without  value,  but 
which  was  of  the  greatest  value  when  combined  with  what 
Miss  Van  Lew  already  knew  or  later  learned.  , 

Her  method  of  reaching  President  Davis  in  his  least- 
guarded  moments  is  evidence  of  her  genius  as  a  spy  and  a 
leader  of  spies.  The  Van  Lews  had  owned  a  negro  girl 
of  unusual  intelligence;  several  years  before  the  war  she 
had  been  given  her  freedom,  sent  North,  and  educated  at 
Miss  Van  Lew's  expense.  This  young  woman,  whose 
name  was  Mary  Elizabeth  Bowser,  was  now  sent  for;  she 
came,  and  for  a  time  was  coached  and  trained  for  her 
mission;  then,  in  consummation  of  Miss  Van  Lew's 
scheming,  she  was  installed  as  a  waitress  in  the  White 
House  of  the  Confederacy.  What  she  was  able  to  learn, 
how  long  she  remained  behind  Jefferson  Davis 's  dining- 
chair,  and  what  became  of  the  girl  ere  the  war  ended  are 
questions  to  which  Time  has  effaced  the  answers. 

For  many  months  Miss  Van  Lew  was  dependent  solely 
on  her  own  resources  for  sending  her  despatches  to  the 
Federal  generals  and  receiving  their  replies;  but  it  was 
accomplished  in  countless  different  ways  by  her  cunning 
and  ingenuity.  It  was  seldom  difficult  for  her  to  procure 
passes  for  her  servants  to  make  the  trip  between  the  town 
house  and  the  Van  Lew  farm  below  Richmond,  which  was 
the  second  of  the  stations  that  she  established  for  relaying 
the  despatches  between  her  house  in  Richmond  and  the 
Federal  armies. 

75 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

Large  baskets  of  eggs  were  brought  in  often;  of  each 
lot  one  egg  was  but  a  shell  which  contained  a  tiny  scroll 
of  paper — a  message  from  some  Union  general.  An  old 
negro,  shuffling  in  his  clumsy  thick-soled  shoes,  pressed 
with  each  step  on  a  cipher  despatch  in  a  slit  in  his  shoe 
sole.  A  little  seamstress  carried  the  implements  of  her 
trade  to  and  fro  from  house  to  farm ;  the  dress-goods  and 
bewildering  patterns  were  returned  to  her  after  but  a 
cursory  examination  by  the  patrols  and  guards,  who  un 
wittingly  had  held  a  Federal  despatch  in  their  hands. 
Countryman,  slave,  and  sewing-girl — humble  agents 
whose  very  names  will  never  be  known — they  bore  time 
after  time  evidence  that,  if  found,  would  have  hanged 
them,  to  the  nearest  tree. 

As  for  Miss  Van  Lew,  the  likelihood  of  detection  seemed 
inevitable.  "From  the  commencement  of  the  war  until 
its  close  my  life  was  in  continual  jeopardy,"  she  wrote. 
' '  I  was  an  enthusiast  [who]  never  counted  it  dear  if  I  could 
have  served  the  Union — not  that  I  wished  to  die."  Morn 
ing  after  morning  she  awoke  to  a  new  day  of  suspense 
and  threatening  danger  such  as  few  men  and  fewer  women 
can  be  made  to  understand.  Night  after  night — and  what 
must  the  nights  have  been!  And  for  four  years  this 
lasted  without  respite.  No  soldier  but  had  his  days  and 
weeks  of  absolute  safety — for  her  there  was  not  one  hour ; 
betrayal,  friends'  blunders,  the  carelessness  of  others  and 
their  reckless  disregard  of  prudence — all  these  she  had  to 
dread;  but  worst  of  all  she  was  forced  to  intrust  her  life 
to  men  and  women  whom  she  herself  had  not  chosen. 

There  came  one  day  a  stranger,  a  countrywoman  of 
the  lowest  class.  She  bore  openly  a  sheet  of  letter-paper, 
folded,  addressed  to  "Miss  Van  Lew" ;  inside  was  scrawled 

76 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

a  request  for  immediate  information  as  to  the  provender 
and  stores  in  Richmond  and  where  the  sick  of  the  hos 
pitals  were  being  taken ;  the  note  was  signed  by  a  Federal 
general.  So  ignorant  was  his 'carelessly  selected  messen 
ger  that  when  Miss  Van  Lew  expressed  surprise  and 
horror  at  her  having  such  an  incriminating  paper,  the 
woman  indignantly  replied,  "I'd  like  to  see  any  one  try 
to  put  their  hand  in  my  pocket!" — as  though  the  loss  of 
the  paper  had  been  all! 

There  came  a  letter  from  General  Butler  to  be  delivered 

to  X ,  of  -    — ,  one  of  General  Winder's  officers.    (His 

name  and  residence  and  position  are  given  in  Miss  Van 
Lew's  manuscript.)  In  the  letter  General  Butler  asked 
this  man  to  come  through  the  lines  and  communicate  with 
him — in  short,  to  "tell  what  he  knew";  also  it  contained 
promises  of  reward;  had  it  fallen  into  Confederate  hands 
the  letter  would  have  been  the  death-warrant  of  him 
whom  it  was  to  tempt  and  of  her  who  bore  the  tempta 
tion.  Miss  Van  Lew  carried  that  letter  straight  to  X— 
at  his  post  in  the  office  of  General  Winder,  commander  of 
the  city  of  Richmond;  she  coolly  took  it  from  the  bosom 
of  her  dress,  gave  X—  -  the  letter,  and  watched  him  as 
he  read.  Had  she  judged  him  aright  ?  She  had  sounded 
him,  had  found  him  dissatisfied,  approachable,  and  she 
had  marked  him  for  an  Arnold  to  his  cause.  Against  her 
estimate  of  character  she  had  staked  her  life;  was  she  to 
win  or  lose?  In  the  next  room  were  the  detectives  and 
armed  guards,  the  machinery  of  the  Confederate  capital's 
secret  police;  X—  -  had  but  to  raise  his  voice.  .  .  .  She 
saw  his  face  blanch  and  his  lips  quiver;  as  he  followed  her 
out  he  begged  her  to  be  prudent — if  she  would  never 
come  there  again  he  promised  to  go  to  her.  She  had 

77 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

added  one  more  to  the  weapons  with  which  she  was 
striking  at  the  very  heart  of  the  Confederacy.  Long 
years  after  the  war  X —  -  brought  some  of  his  friends  to 
her  that  she  might  corroborate  his  story  of  what  one 
woman  had  dared  and  risked. 

There  came  a  day  when  no  messenger  was  at  hand  by 
whom  to  send  a  despatch  to  Grant — a  message  of  supreme 
importance:  he  had  asked  of  her  that  by  a  certain  date 
she  make  a  report  of  the  number  and  disposition  of  the 
forces  in  and  about  Richmond.  The  cipher  despatch 
was  written,  and,  if  it  were  to  reach  Grant  in  time,  not 
one  hour  was  to  be  lost  in  finding  a  messenger.  Apparently 
no  Federal  agent  was  able  to  enter  the  city;  she  knew 
that  just  then  no  servant  of  hers  might  leave  it.  In 
desperation  she  took  the  great  market-basket  that  had 
become  so  familiar  a  sight  to  the  people  of  Richmond, 
and  started  in  her  customary  manner  for  the  market. 

As  she  walked  she  childishly  swung  the  basket  and  softly 
sang  and  hummed  her  little  songs  and  smiled  her  vacant 
smile  into  the  faces  of  those  who,  as  she  passed,  mocked 
at ' '  Crazy  Bet " — this  woman  who  dared  walk  Richmond's 
streets  while  in  her  hand  she  held — for  the  Federal  army 
— a  key  to  Richmond's  defenses. 

A  man  overtook  her  and  whispered  as  he  passed: 
"I'm  going  through  to-night!"  She  gave  no  start  of 
surprise,  no  look  of  curiosity;  the  man  walked  just  ahead 
and  she  followed.  Was  the  Federal  agent  come  at  last? 
—or  was  this  another  of  the  countless  traps  of  the  secret 
police?  The  man  was  an  utter  stranger  to  her,  but  the 
need  was  urgent,  imperative — should  she  take  the  chance? 
She  quickened  her  pace,  and,  as  she  in  turn  passed  him, 
again  came  the  whisper:  "I'm  going  through  the  lines  to- 

78 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

night!"  In  her  hand  she  held  the  cipher  despatch, 
torn  into  strips  and  each  strip  rolled  into  a  tiny  ball; 
should  she  commence  to  drop  them  one  by  one?  In 
great  perplexity  -and  fear  she  quickly  glanced  back  for  a 
look  at  his  face.  And  instantly  some  instinct,  some 
woman's  instinct,  said  "No,"  and  on  that  inner  prompt 
ing  she  impulsively  turned  into  a  side  street  and  hurried 
home.  Next  day  she  saw  that  man,  a  junior  officer, 
marching  past  her  house  for  the  front  with  his  Confed 
erate  regiment.  By  such  hairs  as  these  did  the  sword 
hang  over  her  day  after  day,  day  after  day. 

What  was  the  outcome?  Was  she  able  to  contrive  a 
means  of  sending  the  despatch  to  Grant  by  the  appointed 
time  ?  It  is  not  known.  Miss  Van  Lew's  story  is  difficult 
to  tell;  it  is  similar  to  a  mosaic  in  fragments;  here  and 
there  pieces  may  be  put  together  to  reconstruct  a  part  of 
the  picture,  a  figure,  a  group,  an  incident  of  the  story. 
Though  there  is  a  great  quantity  of  material,  it  seems  to 
have  been  spread  upon  a  wide-meshed  sieve,  through  which 
there  has  sifted — and  dropped  into  oblivion — most  of  the 
detail,  the  "when  and  where  and  how"  of  the  story, 
leaving  behind  only  great  blocks  of  background — cold 
fact  and  vague  and  generalized  statement. 

The  wide-meshed  sieve  was  Fear;  for  forty  years  Miss 
Van  Lew's  every  written  and  spoken  word  was  sifted 
through  it.  Long  after  the  war  was  ended  a  Northern 
friend  wrote  of  her  and  her  mother:  "Neither  talks  about 
themselves  or  ever  answers  a  direct  question." 

Miss  Van  Lew  herself  has  written: 

"Among  the  Union  people  of  the  city  I  was  the  recog 
nized  head — the  leader — my  word  was  law.  .  .  .  Earnestly 
in  service  from  that  time  [the  John  Brown  Raid]  I  did 

79 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

anything  and  everything  I  could  until  the  close  of  the 
war,  but  when,  and  where,  and  how  'It  boots  not  to  re 
member'  or  write  now;  for  the  story  will  not  'Quicken 
love's  pale  embers'  in  this  locality;  I  cannot  say  of  our 
people  that  they  have  'Loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had 
passed.'  ...  Of  those  perilous  days  and  perilous  times 
I  cannot  even  now  write — it  agitates  me." 

In  her  mutilated  war  diary,  or  "Occasional  Journal," 
as  she  called  it,  there  is  written,  by  way  of  preface : 

The  keeping  of  a  complete  journal  was  a  risk  too  fearful  to  run. 
Written  only  to  be  burnt  was  the  fate  of  almost  everything  which 
would  now  be  of  value;  keeping  one's  house  in  order  for  government 
inspection,  with  Salisbury  prison  in  perspective,  necessitated  this. 
I  always  went  to  bed  at  night  with  anything  dangerous  on  paper  be 
side  me,  so  as  to  be  able  to  destroy  it  in  a  moment.  The  following 
occasional  journal  .  .  .  was  long  buried  for  safety. 

Was  such  extreme  caution  necessary?  It  was  im 
perative.  Confederate  spies  were  everywhere. 

"If  you  spoke  in  your  parlor  or  chamber  to  your  next 
of  heart,  you  whispered — you  looked  under  the  lounges 
and  beds.  Detectives  were  put  upon  their1  tracks  by 
citizens  and  the  government.  Visitors  apparently  friend 
ly  were  treacherous.  They  were  brought  to  the  attention 
of  the  Grand  Jury,  by  those  they  regarded  as  true  friends, 
for  trafficking  in  greenbacks,  when  they  had  none  of  them. 
They  were  publicly  denounced,  and  walked  the  streets 
for  four  years  shunned  as  lepers.  ...  I  shall  ever  remember 
the  pale  face  of  this  dear  lady  [her  mother] — her  feeble 
health  and  occasional  illness  from  anxiety;  her  dread  of 
Castle  Thunder  and  Salisbury — for  her  arrest  was  con- 

1  In  these  excerpts  from  the  manuscript  of  her  unpublished  book,  Miss 
Van  Lew  frequently  refers  thus  indirectly  to  her  family  or  herself,  but 
within  a  few  lines  slips  back  into  the  first  person. 

80 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

stantly  spoken  of,  and  frequently  reported  on  the  street, 
and  some  never  hesitated  to  say  she  should  be  hanged.  .  .  . 
Unionists  lived  ever  in  a  reign  of  terror — I  was  afraid  even 
to  pass  the  prison;  I  have  had  occasion  to  stop  near  it 
when  I  dared  not  look  up  at  the  windows.  I  have  turned 
to  speak  to  a  friend  and  found  a  detective  at  my  elbow. 
Strange  faces  could  sometimes  be  seen  peeping  around 
the  columns  and  pillars  of  the  back  portico.  .  .  .  Once  a 
lady  and  a  dear  friend  staying  with  this  family  was  sent 
for  to  General  Winder's  office,  and  requested  to  state  if 
she  could  learn  aught  against  them,  but  she  replied  that 
she  was  'not  with  them  as  a  spy.' '  (The  note  demanding 
her  guest's  presence  is  to  be  found  among  Miss  Van  Lew's 
papers.  "You  need  not  see  Mrs.  Van  Lew,  nor  will 
your  name  be  mentioned  to  her,"  the  note  concluded, 
affably.)  .  .  .  "Once  I  went  to  Jefferson  Davis  himself  to 
see  if  we  could  not  obtain  some  protection.  He  was  in 
Cabinet  session,  but  I  saw  Mr.  Jocelyn,  his  private  secre 
tary;  he  told  me  I  had  better  apply  to  the  Mayor.  .  .  . 
Captain  George  Gibbs  had  succeeded  Todd  as  keeper  of 
the  prisoners;  so  perilous  had  our  situation  become  that 
we  took  him  and  his  family  to  board  with  us.  They  were 
certainly  a  great  protection.  .  .  .  Such  was  our  life — such 
was  freedom  in  the  Confederacy.  I  speak  what  I  know." 
Summer  came  and  passed  and  came  and  passed  again; 
the  third  year  of  the  war  was  drawing  to  its  close  in  the 
terrible  winter  of  '63-4.  In  February  Miss  Van  Lew's 
only  brother,  John,  was  conscripted  and,  in  spite  of  having 
been  pronounced  unfit  for  military  duty  because  of  ill 
health,  was  ordered  to  report  immediately  to  Camp  Lee. 
No  previous  mention  in  this  story  has  been  made  of  John 
Van  Lew;  in  all  his  sister's  and  his  mother's  activities  he 
6  81 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

remained  but  the  silent  partner,  quietly  conducting  his 
hardware  business,  and  from  its  dwindling  proceeds 
supplying  much  of  the  money  used  for  the  aid  of  the 
Federal  prisoners  and  for  his  sister's  secret  operations. 
Now,  when  conscripted  into  the  Confederate  army,  he 
immediately  deserted  and  for  a  time  was  concealed  by 
Unionists  in  the  outskirts  of  the  city.  While  he  still 
awaited  an  opportunity  to  escape  to  the  Federal  lines  his 
sister  (wearing  her  disguise,  she  says)  visited  him,  on  the 
evening  of  February  gth — the  most  unfortunate  date, 
events  proved,  which  she  could  have  chosen.  Her 
story  of  that  night  and  of  the  next  succeeding  day  is  found 
among  her  manuscript. 

"I  went  to  the  kind  family  where  my  brother  was 
secreted;  they  were  poor;  and  I  passed  the  night  with 
them.  In  the  morning  our  driver  came  out  with  a  basket 
of  supplies.  As  soon  as  he  entered  he  said  that  there  was 
great  trouble  and  excitement,  and  that  brother  was  in 
great  danger — that  many  prisoners  had  escaped  during 
the  night,  and  some  had  come  to  the  outer  door — the  ser 
vants'  room  door  on  Twenty-fourth  Street — and  knocked 
and  asked  for  Colonel  Streight  and  begged  to  come  in, 
but  that  he  was  afraid  they  were  not  prisoners — only  our 
people  [Confederates]  in  disguise  to  entrap  us,  and  [he] 
would  not  let  them  in;  that  some  had  stood  off  by  the 
churchyard  wall  and  watched,  and  he  was  afraid."  (Un 
fortunately  these  were  indeed  Federal  officers;  it  was  not 
until  roll-call  next  morning  that  it  was  discovered  that 
109  officers  had  escaped  through  Colonel  Rose's  tunnel 
out  of  Libby  Prison.)  "Brother  then  had  to  give  up  all 
hopes  of  escape,  because  we  knew  vigilance  would  be  re 
doubled,  and  we  were  in  great  trouble  for  the  family  he 

82 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

was  with ;  for  it  was  to  be  expected  that  their  house  would 
be  searched,  and  it  would  have  gone  very  hard  with  them 
had  a  deserter  been  found  secreted  there.  We  were 
greatly  distressed,  too,  on  account  of  the  prisoners;  we 
knew  there  was  to  be  an  exit — had  been  told  to  prepare 
— and  had  one  of  our  parlors — an  off,  or  rather  end  room; 
had  had  dark  blankets  nailed  up  at  the  windows,  and  gas 
kept  burning  in  it,  very  low,  night  and  day  for  about 
three  weeks — so  we  were  ready  for  them — beds  prepared 
in  there. 

"I  went  home  as  quickly  as  I  could,  in  despair.  As 
desperate  situations  sometimes  require  desperate  reme 
dies,  I  determined  to  go  to  General  Winder."  And  so  the 
story  goes  on  at  considerable  length  to  tell  how  General 
Winder  personally  made  great  efforts  to  induce  the  medical 
commission  again  to  declare  John  Van  Lew  unfit  for 
service;  the  General  failed  in  that,  but  he  did  succeed  in 
getting  him  into  his  own  regiment,  and  there  he  was  able 
to  give  such  effectual  protection  that  John  Van  Lew  never 
wore  a  Confederate  uniform,  and  only  once  shouldered  a 
Confederate  musket,  to  stand,  on  a  great  "panic  day," 
a  figurehead  guard  at  the  door  of  a  government  depart 
ment.  But  at  last,  during  the  summer  of  '64,  when  even 
General  Winder's  protection  could  no  longer  save  him 
from  active  service  at  the  front,  John  Van  Lew  deserted 
again,  and  this  time  reached  the  Federal  army,  where  he 
remained  until  after  Richmond  had  fallen — and  so  passes 
from  this  story. 

As  for  the  fugitives  from  the  Libby,  it  has  been  told 
in  Richmond,  and  is  told  to  this  day,  that  Colonel  Streight 
and  a  number  of  his  comrades  lay  hidden  for  days  in  the 
secret  room  of  the  Van  Lew  mansion.  The  story  that  they 

83 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

were  in  the  secret  room  is  forever  set  at  rest  by  the  diary 
for  Monday,  February  15,  1864: 

"I  shall  ever  remember  this  day  because  of  the  great 
alarm  I  had  for  others.  Colonel  Streight  and  three  of  the 
prisoners  .  .  .  were  secreted  near  Howard's  Grove.  After 

passing  through  the  tunnel  they  were  led  by  a  Mrs.  G 

to  a  humble  home  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city;  there  Mrs. 
R received  them.  By  request  of  some  of  their  num 
ber  she  came  .  .  .  for  me,  and  I  went  with  her  to  see  them. 
.  .  .  We  had  a  little  laughing  and  talking,  and  then  I  said 
good-by,  with  the  most  fervent  God  bless  you  in  my  heart 
toward  all  of  them." 

The  parlor — that  "off,  or  rather  end,  room"  with  its 
blanket-curtained  windows  and  its  extravagant  waste  of 
gas  is  used  by  Miss  Van  Lew  as  dust  to  throw  in  our  eyes 
for  some  unf athomed  reason  of  her  own ;  in  none  of  her  writ 
ings  does  she  mention  the  true  secret  room ;  yet  it  was  there 
then,  and  it  is  there — no  longer  a  secret — to  this  present  day. 

It  extends  in  a  long,  low,  narrow  cell  just  back  of  where 
the  main  roof  slopes  up  from  its  juncture  with  the  flat 
roof  of  the  great  rear  veranda;  the  garret  is  squared,  and 
between  its  west  wall  and  the  sloping  roof  lies  the  hidden 
room.  When  it  was  built  and  by  whose  hand,  whether 
it  was  designed  for  the  purpose  to  which  it  was  put,  and 
how  many  men  it  may  have  sheltered  during  the  war, 
may  now  never  be  known.  Its  existence  was  always 
suspected,  and  though  the  house  was  searched  time  after 
time  for  that  very  room  it  was  discovered  just  once,  and 
then  by  a  little  child ;  save  for  her  it  might  have  remained 
a  secret  till  the  old  house  should  come  to  be  torn  down; 
for  Miss  Van  Lew  never  told  of  the  spring  door  in  the  wall 
behind  the  antique  chest  of  drawers. 

84 


THE    SECRET    ROOM 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

Long  years  after  the  war — after  Miss  Van  Lew  had  died 
— she  who  had  been  the  little  girl  visited  the  old  house, 
and  rediscovered  the  secret  room;  after  more  than  forty 
years  her  fingers  searched  out  and  again  pressed  the  hid 
den  spring.  And  then  she  told  of  that  other  time  when 
she  had  opened  the  door:  how  with  childish  curiosity  she 
had  stealthily  followed  Aunt  Betty  up  through  the  dark, 
silent  house  to  see  where  the  plate  of  food  was  being 
carried  in  the  night.  She  has  never  forgotten  what  she 
saw  as  she  peeped  fearfully  into  the  attic  from  the  head 
of  the  stairs — the  shadows  and  the  ghostly  shapes  of  the 
old  furniture  around  the  walls ;  her  aunt,  shading  the  candle 
with  her  hand,  standing  before  a  black  hole  in  the  wall, 
from  which  peered  a  haggard  soldier  with  shaggy  hair 
and  beard,  his  thin  hand  outstretched  for  the  food. 
When  she  saw  him  looking  at  her,  before  he  could  speak 
she  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips  and  fled.  But  after  her  aunt 
had  gone  she  stole  up  to  the  attic  again,  and  called  softly 
to  the  soldier ;  he  told  her  how  to  open  the  door,  and  when 
she  had  done  so  he  talked  to  her;  she  remembers  that  he 
laughed  as  he  said,  "My!  what  a  spanking  you  would 
have  got  if  your  aunt  had  turned  around!" 

Presently  she  shut  him  into  the  secret  room  again  and 
crept  off  to  bed;  she  never  dared  go  to  the  attic  after 
that,  nor  tell  her  aunt  what  she  had  seen. 

There  was  at  least  one  other  secret  recess  in  the  house 
—the  hiding-place  for  despatches.  In  the  library  there 
was — and  still  remains  unchanged — an  ornamented  iron 
fireplace ;  on  either  side  of  the  grate  are  two  pilasters,  each 
capped  by  a  small  sculptured  figure  of  a  couchant  lion. 
Accident  or  design  had  loosened  one  of  these  so  that  it 
could  be  raised  like  a  box-cover;  it  was  in  the  shallow 

85 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

cavity  beneath  that  Miss  Van  Lew  placed  her  despatches. 
There  was  no  whispered  conference  between  mistress 
and  messenger — to  be  overheard  by  spies  within  the  house, 
to  be  watched  by  those  without.  Miss  Van  Lew,  per 
haps  with  her  back  to  the  mantel,  would  deftly  slip  the 
cipher  letter  under  the  couchant  lion;  later  the  old  negro 
servant,  while  alone  in  the  room,  dusting  the  furniture, 
would  draw  the  message  out,  and  presently  go  plodding 
down  the  dusty  road  to  the  farm,  bearing  some  such 
tidings  as  that  Lee  was  being  reinforced  by  fifteen  thou 
sand  men. 

Of  all  the  many  despatches  which  Miss  Van  Lew  sent 
through  the  Confederate  lines  there  to-day  exists  but  one. 
Inquiry  addressed  to  the  War  Department  shows  that 
"all  papers  in  this  department  relating  to  Miss  Van  Lew 
were  taken  from  the  files  December  12,  1866,  and  given 
to  her."  These  papers — cipher  despatches  from  Miss 
Van  Lew  and  all  reports  in  which  she  was  mentioned — 
must  have  been  immediately  destroyed  by  her,  for  there 
is  no  trace  of  them.  The  one  despatch  must  have  been 
in  some  way  overlooked  when  her  letters  were  returned 
to  her  by  the  War  Department,  and  so  escaped  being 
destroyed.  It  is  a  strange  chance  that  it  should  have 
been  the  one  to  be  thus  preserved,  for  it  is  this  despatch 
— so  closely  connected  by  time  and  circumstance  with  the 
Kilpatrick-Dahlgren  Raid — which  seems  to  establish  the 
real  motive  which  inspired  Miss  Van  Lew  and  some  of 
her  fellow-Unionists  to  take  the  desperate  risk  of  stealing 
Colonel  Dahlgren's  body.  The  despatch,  like  most  of 
those  sent  by  Miss  Van  Lew,  was  in  cipher,  but,  though 
only  its  jumbled  letters  had  been  published,  it  neverthe 
less  might  now  be  translated  and  understood;  for  when 

86 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

Miss  Van  Lew  died  there  was  found  in  the  back  of  her 
watch — where  it  had  been  constantly  carried  for  nearly 
forty  years — a  worn,  yellowed  bit  of  paper  on  which  was 
written  the  faded  letters  of  the  cipher  code,  here  published 
for  the  first  time. 


J 


s 


4 


V 


-&• 


4 


-a/ 


7 


u/ 


3 


2 


r 


o 


/         J 


Miss  VAN  LEW'S  CIPHER   CODE 


Many  years  after  the  war  the  following  translation 
of  her  despatch  was  published  in  the  Official  Records  of 
the  Union  and  Confederate  Armies.  [Series  I;  Volume 
XXXIII,  Part  I,  page  520.] 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

HEADQUARTERS  EIGHTEENTH  ARMY  CORPS, 

FORTRESS  MONROE,  February  5,  1864. 
HONORABLE  E.  M.  STANTON, 

Secretary  of  War. 

SIR, — I  send  enclosed  for  your  perusal  the  information  I  have  ac 
quired  of  the  enemy's  forces  and  disposition  about  Richmond.  The 
letter  commencing  "Dear  Sir,"  on  the  first  page,  is  a  cipher  letter  to 
me  from  a  lady  in  Richmond  with  whom  I  am  in  correspondence. 
The  bearer  of  the  letter  brought  me  a  private  token  showing  that  he 
was  to  be  trusted.  .  .  .  You  will  see  that  the  prisoners  are  to  be  sent 
away  to  Georgia.  Now  or  never  is  the  time  to  strike.  ...  I  have 
marked  this  "Private  and  immediate,"  so  that  it  shall  at  once  come 
into  your  hands. 

Respectfully  your  obedient  servant, 

BENJ.  P.  BUTLER, 
Maj.-Gen.  Commanding. 

January  30,  1864. 

DEAR  SIR, — It  is  intended  to  remove  to  Georgia  all  the  Federal 
prisoners';  butchers  and  bakers  to  go  at  once.  They  are  already 
notified  and  selected.  Quaker  [a  Union  man  whom  I  know — B.  F.  B.] 
knows  this  to  be  true.  Are  building  batteries  on  the  Danville  road. 
This  from  Quaker:  Beware  of  new  and  rash  council!  Beware!  This 
I  send  you  by  (direction  of  all  your  friends.  No  attempt  should  be 
made  with  less  than  30,000  cavalry,  from  10,000  to  15,000  to  support 
them,  amounting  in  all  to  40,000  or  45,000  troops.  Do  not  underrate 
their  strength  and  desperation.  Forces  could  probably  be  called  into 
action  in  from  five  to  ten  days;  25,000,  mostly  artillery.  Hoke's 
and  Kemper's  brigades  gone  to  North  Carolina:  Pickett's  in  or  about 
Petersburg.  Three  regiments  of  cavalry  disbanded  by  General  Lee 
for  want  of  horses.  Morgan  is  applying  for  1,000  choice  men  for  a 
raid. 

Then,  under  date  of  February  4th,  there  follows — in 
the  form  of  question  and  answer — the  account  of  the 
circumstances  under  which  this  letter  was  received.  The 
messenger,  in  his  answers  to  General  Butler's  questions, 
told  how  Miss  Van  Lew  had  asked  him  to  take  the  letter, 
promising  that  General  Butler  would  take  care  of  him; 
how  a  man  had  been  paid  $1,000  (Confederate  money)  to 

88 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

guide  him,  but  had  ''fooled"  him,  deserted  him  at  the 
banks  of  the  Chickahominy  River,  how  nevertheless  he 
had  got  a  boat,  crossed,  and  kept  on.  He  repeated  his 
verbal  messages:  "They  are  sending  the  prisoners  to 
Georgia.  Richmond  could  be  taken  easier  now  than  at 
any  other  time  since  the  war  began.  'Quaker'  (that  is 
not  his  name,  but  he  says  he  does  not  want  any  one  to 
know  his  name)  said  his  plan  to  take  Richmond  would  be 
to  make  a  feint  on  Petersburg;  let  Meade  engage  Lee  on 
the  Rappahannock ;  send  two  or  three  hundred  men  and 
land  them  at  the  White  House  [Landing]  on  the  other 
side  of  Richmond,  so  as  to  attract  attention,  then  have 
ten  thousand  cavalry  to  go  up  in  the  evening,  and  then 
rush  into  Richmond  the  next  morning." 

Did  Miss  Van  Lew  and  "Quaker"  and  the  other 
Unionists  of  Richmond  hold  themselves  responsible  for 
the  ill-fated  raid  to  release  the  Federal  prisoners?  Was 
it  indeed  the  information  in  Miss  Van  Lew's  despatch 
which  inspired  the  raid?  Thus,  when  the  body  of  the 
crippled  boy-leader,  Colonel  Ulric  Dahlgren — he  was  not 
yet  twenty-two — lay  in  secret  among  the  ten  thousand 
grassless  graves  below  Oakwood  Cemetery  in  Richmond, 
what  was  it  which  moved  Miss  Van  Lew  and  the  Union 
ists  to  risk  their  very  lives  to  steal  his  body  and  send  it 
through  the  Confederate  pickets  to  a  "friendly  grave" 
—was  it  pity  only,  or  was  it  that  they  felt  that  they  had 
brought  him  there? 

1  The  Kilpatrick- Dahlgren  Raid  was  primarily  to  release 
the  Federal  prisoners  in  Richmond.  On  February  28,  1864, 
General  Judson  Kilpatrick  and  Colonel  Ulric  Dahlgren 
at  the  head  of  four  thousand  picked  troopers  left  Stevens- 
burg  and  made  direct  for  Richmond.  There  was  the 

89 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

feint — the  simultaneous  demonstration  by  Meade  upon 
Lee's  left;  there  was  the  plan  for  Dahlgren  to  engage 
Richmond  on  the  south  with  a  small  force  while  the 
main  body  was  to  enter  on  the  north;  there  was  to  be 
the  release  of  the  prisoners  who  were  so  ' '  soon  to  be  re 
moved  to  Georgia" — is  there  doubt  that  Miss  Van  Lew 
and  " Quaker"  saw  in  it  all  a  responsibility  that  rested 
in  a  measure  on  themselves? 

The  raid — though  it  penetrated  to  within  five  miles 
of  Richmond — failed.  By  a  series  of  accidents — chief 
of  which  was  the  treachery  of  Dahlgren 's  negro  guide — 
the  two  forces,  after  separating  for  the  attack,  lost  each 
other  and  were  never  able  to  unite.  Tuesday,  March 
ist,  found  both  Kilpatrick  and  Dahlgren — widely  separat 
ed — in  retreat,  and  riding  hard  for  the  Peninsula.  But 
that  night,  in  the  storm  that  raged,  Dahlgren  and  his  ad 
vance  (about  one  hundred  men)  with  whom  he  rode  be 
came  lost  from  the  remainder  of  his  little  command.  In 
all  the  history  of  the  war  there  is  no  more  pathetic  figure 
—with  crutches  strapped  to  the  saddle,  and  in  the  stirrup 
an  artificial  limb  to  take  the  place  of  the  leg  lost  but 
a  few  months  before — none  more  dramatic  than  young 
Ulric  Dahlgren  as  he  led  his  handful  of  exhausted  men 
through  the  roused  country.  In  King  and  Queen  County 
there  came  the  end;  the  little  band  rode  into  an 
ambush,  and  at  the  first  volley  from  out  the  thicket 
Colonel  Dahlgren,  who  was  in  advance,  was  shot  dead; 
some  of  his  men  managed  to  escape,  but  the  remainder 
were  taken. 

In  her  manuscript  Miss  Van  Lew  tells  of  the  turmoil 
into  which  Richmond  was  thrown  by  the  nearer  and  nearer 
approach  of  the  raiders,  of  her  own  suspense,  and  her 

90 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

greater  anguish  when  it  became  apparent  that  the  raid 
had  failed;  she  tells  the  detailed  story — as  it  was  told  to 
her — of  the  killing  of  Colonel  Dahlgren;  and  then  of  the 
events  which  followed. 

"A  coffin  was  made,  and  the  body  of  Dahlgren  placed 
in  it  and  buried,  where  he  was  killed,  at  the  fork  of  two 
roads,  one  leading  from  Stevensville  and  the  other  from 
Mantua  ferry.  After  a  few  days  it  was  disinterred  by 
order  of  the  Confederate  government,  brought  to  Rich 
mond,  and  lay  for  a  time  in  a  box-car  at  the  York  River 
Railway  station.  It  was  buried,  as  the  papers  said,  at 
eleven  o'clock  at  night,  no  one  knew  where  and  no  one 
should  ever  know.  .  .  .  The  heart  of  every  Unionist  was 
stirred  to  its  depth ;  .  .  .  and  to  discover  the  hidden  grave 
and  remove  his  honored  dust  to  friendly  care  was  decided 
upon."  (No  word  of  Miss  Van  Lew's  reveals  that  the 
plan  from  first  to  last  was  hers ;  it  was  she  who  incited  the 
men  to  steal  the  body;  her  money  purchased  the  metallic 
casket,  which  was  concealed  by  her  strategy.) 

''Several  endeavored  to  trace  it,  and  Mr.  F.  W.  E. 
Lohmann  succeeded  in  doing  so,  willingly  running  the  risk 
of  its  removal,  which  all  knew  here  was  perilous  in  no 
small  degree.  The  discovery  of  the  body  was  entirely 
accidental,  or  rather  providential;  would  not  have  been 
made  had  not  a  negro  been  out  in  the  burying-ground  at 
midnight  and  saw  them  burying  Dahlgren.  .  .  .  When 
search  was  made,  this  negro  suspected  that  the  person 
inquired  for  was  sleeping  in  his  care — and  to  this  negro's 
[illegible  word:  intelligence?]  it  may  be  that  Colonel 
Dahlgren 's  body  was  ever  found. 

"  Arrangements  had  been  made  to  convey  it  to  the 
residence  of  Mr,  William  S.  Rowley,  some  short  distance 

91 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

in  the  country;  and,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Martin  M. 
Lipscomb,  on  the  cold,  dark,  and  rainy  night  of  April  5th, 
Mr.  Lohmann  went  to  the  ground,  and  with  the  aid  of  a 
negro  took  up  the  coffin,  opened  it,  and  identified  the  body 
by  the  missing  limb — it  having  lost  the  right  leg  below 
the  knee.  It  was  then  put  into  a  wagon,  and  Mr.  Loh 
mann  drove  it  to  Mr.  Rowley's;  the  coffin  was  carried 
into  an  outbuilding — a  kind  of  seed  or  work  shop — where 
Mr.  Rowley  watched  the  rest  of  the  night  beside  it.  In 
the  morning  a  metallic  coffin  was  brought  out.  A  few 
Union  friends  saw  the  body.  Colonel  Dahlgren's  hair 
was  very  short,  but  all  that  could  be  spared  was  cut  off 
and  sent  to  his  father.  .  .  .  The  body  was  taken  from  the 
rough,  coarse  coffin  and  placed  in  the  metallic  one,  the 
lid  of  which  was  sealed  with  a  composition  improvised  by 
F.  W.  E.  Lohmann,  as  there  was  no  putty  to  be  procured 
in  Richmond.  This  coffin  was  placed  in  Mr.  Rowley's 
wagon,  which  was  then  rilled  with  young  peach-trees 
packed  as  nurserymen  pack  them — the  coffin,  of  course, 
being  covered  and  concealed.  Mr.  Rowley  took  the 
driver's  seat  and  drove  all  that  remained  of  the  brave 
young  Dahlgren  through  the  several  pickets,  one  of  which 
was  then  the  strongest  around  Richmond ; ...  at  this  very 
place  the  day  before  his  death  had  Dahlgren  fought  for 
hours.  Wary  and  vigilant  were  our  pickets,  and  if  one 
had  run  his  bayonet  into  this  wagon  only  a  few  inches, 
death  would  certainly  have  been  the  reward  of  this  brave 
man;  not  only  death,  but  torture  to  make  him  reveal 
those  connected  with  him — his  accomplices." 

Rowley  was  chosen  well ;  Miss  Van  Lew's  account  shows 
him  to  have  been  a  man  of  iron  nerve  and  a  consummate 
actor.  At  the  picket-post  he  listened  without  a  quiver 

92 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

to  the  unexpected  order  that  his  wagon  be  searched;  an 
inbound  team  drew  up,  and  the  picket,  perceiving  that 
Rowley  gave  no  sign  of  being  in  a  hurry,  thoroughly 
searched  it.  The  lieutenant  of  the  post  having  re-entered 
his  tent,  and  one  of  the  guard  at  that  moment  having  rec 
ognized  in  Rowley  a  chance  acquaintance  and  recalled 
to  him  their  former  meeting,  there  at  once  commenced 
a  lively  conversation.  More  wagons  came,  were  searched, 
and  went  on.  The  lieutenant,  looking  out  from  his  tent 
for  an  instant,  called,  with  an  oath,  to  "  search  that  man 
and  let  him  go." 

"It  would  be  a  pity  to  tear  up  those  trees!"  said  the 
friendly  guard. 

"I  did  not  expect  them  to  be  disturbed,"  Rowley  an 
swered,  "but" — nonchalantly — "I  know  a  soldier's  duty." 

Then  another  wagon  had  to  be  examined,  and  a  second 
time  came  the  lieutenant's  angry  order  to  "search  the  man 
so  that  he  can  go!"  The  suspense  must  have  been  ter 
rible;  it  seemed  now  that  nothing  could  avert  the  dis 
covery  of  the  casket. 

"Your  face  is  guarantee  enough,"  the  guard  said,  in 
a  low  voice;  "go  on!"  And  so  the  body  of  Col.  Ulric 
Dahlgren  resumed  its  journey. 

The  two  Lohmanns  had  flanked  the  picket,  and  presently 
joining  Rowley,  they  directed  the  drive  to  the  farm  of  a 
German  named  Orrick,  near  Hungary  (now  Laurel 
Station).  The  grave  was  quickly  dug  and  the  coffin 
placed  in  it;  two  faithful  German  women  helped  to  fill  it 
in  and  to  plant  over  it  one  of  the  peach-trees  which  had 
so  successfully  prevented  discovery. 

It  was  perhaps  unfortunate  that  the  Unionists  carried 
out  their  well-intentioned  plan,  for  Admiral  Dahlgren 's 

93 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

recovery  of  the  body  of  his  son  was  thereby  retarded  until 
after  the  war.  With  Admiral  Dahlgren's  request  for  the 
return  of  the  body  the  Confederate  government  made 
every  effort  to  comply — an  action  which  was  a  great  sur 
prise  to  the  Richmond  Unionists,  who  believed  the  Con 
federates  to  be  too  bitter  against  Dahlgren  ever  to  accede 
to  such  a  demand.  But  the  body  was  gone,  and  the  mys 
tery  of  its  disappearance  remained — for  the  Confed 
erates — long  unsolved. 

Close  upon  the  heels  of  the  Dahlgren  Raid  and  its 
tragic  ending  came  the  opening  of  the  spring  campaign. 
"As  the  war  advanced"  (Miss  Van  Lew  wrote)  "and 
the  army  closed  around  Richmond,  I  was  able  to  com 
municate  with  General  Butler  and  General  Grant,  but 
not  so  well  and  persistently  with  General  Butler,  for  there 
was  too  much  danger  in  the  system  and  persons.  With 
General  Grant,  through  his  Chief  of  Secret  Service, 
General  George  H.  Sharpe,  I  was  more  fortunate."  So 
"fortunate"  that  flowers  which  one  day  grew  in  her 
Richmond  garden  stood  next  morning  on  Grant's  break 
fast-table. 

Great  gaps  occur  in  the  "Occasional  Journal"  for  1864- 
5 ;  the  personal  element  had  been  destroyed,  and  there  is 
left  only  description  of  general  conditions — save  for  the 
story  of  Pole,  the  Englishman,  who  in  February,  when 
unseen  Peace  was  but  six  weeks  away,  was  piloted  into 
Richmond  from  headquarters  by  a  Federal  agent  to  assist 
in  obtaining  information;  Pole,  the  Englishman,  who 
brought  the  shadow  of  death  closer,  blacker,  more  im 
minent  than  ever  it  had  been  before.  For  Pole,  once  he 
was  in  Richmond,  immediately  betrayed  Babcock,  who 
had  brought  him  in,  and  White,  with  whom  he  was  to  have 

94 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

been  quartered,  and  those  Unionists  by  whom  he  and 
Babcock  had  been  aided  along  their  way. 

Miss  Van  Lew  read  in  the  newspaper  of  the  arrests,  and 
there  followed  hours  of  suspense,  until  it  became  apparent 
that  Pole  had  been  unable  to  incriminate  her,  and  that 
she  had  indeed  escaped  again. 

Winter  was  hardly  over  when  Lee's  veterans — more 
gaunt,  more  *grim,  immeasurably  more  heroic — recom 
menced  the  now  hopeless  struggle.  The  despairing  Con 
federacy  was  ransacking  the  South  to  obtain  horses  to 
send  to  its  fighting-men;  Miss  Van  Lew  hid  her  last  re 
maining  horse  in  the  smoke-house,  until,  finding  it  to  be 
unsafe  there,  she  stabled  it  in  the  study  of  the  house, 
its  stamping  being  deadened  by  a  thick-strewn  layer  of 
straw. 

The  ''Occasional  Journal"  contains  many  sentences: 
"Oh,  the  yearning  for  deliverance.  The  uncertain  length 
of  our  captivity,  now  reckoned  by  years."  Then  at  last 
there  came  deliverance — the  fall  of  Richmond. 

"Toward  the  close  of  the  day  [Sunday]  the  young 
soldiers  could  be  seen  bidding  hurried  farewells  to  their 
friends.  .  .  .  Word  was  sent  to  us  that  our  house  was 
to  be  burned — some  Confederate  soldiers  had  said  so. 
.  .  .  Midnight  passed;  the  door-bell  rang — two  fugitives 
came  in  from  Castle  Thunder.  .  .  .  The  constant  explosion 
of  shells,  the  blowing  up  of  the  gunboats  and  of  the  powder 
magazines  seemed  to  jar,  to  shake  the  earth.  .  .  .  The 
burning  bridges,  the  roaring  flames,  added  a  wild  grandeur 
to  the  scene."  And  then  in  a  burst  of  exultation,  "Oh, 
army  of  my  country,  how  glorious  was  your  welcome!" 

She  does  not  tell  how  the  mob  did  come  to  burn  the 
house  before  the  arrival  of  the  first  troops,  and  how  she 

95 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

went  out  alone  on  the  portico  and  defied  them.  '  *  I  know 

you,  -  — ,  and  you, ,  and  you,  Mr.  -  — ,"  she  cried, 

calling  them  by  name  and  pointing  to  them.  "General 
Grant  will  be  in  this  city  within  the  hour;  if  this  house 
is  harmed,  your  houses  shall  be  burned  by  noon!"  One 
by  one  they  turned,  muttering,  and  slunk  away. 

Nor  does  she  tell — but  it  shall  not  be  forgotten! — how 
with  her  own  hands  she  raised  over  the  old  Van  Lew 
mansion  the  first  Federal  flag  that  had  been  seen  in 
Richmond  since  the  other  April  morning  four  long  years 
before.  When  she  had  seen  that  the  fall  of  Richmond 
was  inevitable,  she  had  written  to  General  Butler  for  a 
flag;  when,  and  how,  and  by  whom  it  was  brought  to  her 
it  will  probably  never  be  known ;  but  in  some  way  a  great 
flag  eighteen  feet  long  by  nine  wide  came  through  the 
Confederate  pickets  into  the  beleaguered  city,  and  was 
treasured  till  it  might  be  raised  to  greet  the  entering 
Union  army.  Before  even  the  advance-guard  was  in 
sight  she  had  raised  the  flag;  and  as  the  long,  dusty  line 
of  men  in  blue  swung  into  Main  Street  there  waved  from 
the  Van  Lew  mansion  on  the  hill  above  them  the  first  Fed 
eral  flag  to  tell  that  the  capital  of  the  Confederacy  had  fallen. 

The  special  guard  under  command  of  Colonel  Parke, 
sent  by  General  Grant  for  Miss  Van  Lew's  protection, 
found  her  in  the  deserted  capitol,  seeking  in  the  archives 
for  documents  which  might  otherwise  be  destroyed;  to 
the  very  end  her  every  thought  was  for  "the  government." 

And  for  a  time  the  government  remembered.  Presi 
dent  Grant,  fifteen  days  after  his  inauguration,  appointed 
Miss  Van  Lew  postmistress  of  Richmond.  She  knew  that 
it  would  be  heralded  throughout  the  South  that  she  had 
demanded  the  office  in  payment  for  services  rendered 

96 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

against  the  Confederacy;  but  her  family  was  in  great 
financial  straits,  and  she  made  the  sacrifice.  For  eight 
years  she  conducted  the  office  with  competence,  even 
skill;  her  business  relations  with  the  people  of  Rich 
mond  were  for  the  most  part  amicable,  but  socially  she 
paid,  she  paid! 

"I  live — and  have  lived  for  years — as  entirely  distinct 
from  the  citizens  as  if  I  were  plague-stricken,"  she  wrote. 
"Rarely,  very  rarely,  is  our  door-bell  ever  rung  by  any 
but  a  pauper,  or  those  desiring  my  service.  .  .  .  September, 
1875,  my  mother  was  taken  from  me  by  death.  We  had 
not  friends  enough  to  be  pall-bearers." 

Six  weeks  after  General  Grant  had  left  the  Presidential 
chair  Miss  Van  Lew  was  writing  to  Mr.  Rogers,  private 
secretary  to  President  Hayes:  "I  am  hounded  down — 
I  am  hounded  down.  ...  I  never,  never  was  so  bitterly 
persecuted — ask  the  President  to  protect  me  from  this 
unwarranted,  unmerited,  and  unprecedented  persecution/' 
In  May  came  her  successor. 

After  her  removal  from  office  there  followed  years  of 
distressing  poverty  and  unavailing  efforts  to  procure 
any  sort  of  government  appointment.  Her  salary  during 
office  had  been  spent  without  regard  for  the  morrow — 
chiefly  in  charities  to  the  negro  race;  it  was,  to  the  very 
last,  her  dogmatically  performed  activities  in  behalf  of 
the  negroes — characterized  by  her  neighbors  as  "perni 
cious  social-equality  doctrines  and  practices" — much  more 
than  her  war  record,  which  so  ostracized  her  in  her  com 
munity.  Utterly  unable  to  dispose  of  her  valuable  but 
unproductive  real  estate,  she  was  reduced  to  great  dis 
tress — absolute  need.  "I  tell  you  truly  and  solemnly," 
she  wrote,  "that  I  have  suffered  for  necessary  food.  I 

7  97 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

have  not  one  cent  in  the  world.  ...  I  have  stood  the  brunt 
alone  of  a  persecution  that  I  believe  no  other  person  in 
the  country  has  endured  who  has  not  been  Ku-Kluxed.  I 
honestly  think  that  the  government  should  see  that  I  was 
sustained." 

And  finally  there  did  come  the  long-sought  appoint 
ment — a  clerkship  in  the  Post-office  Department  at  Wash 
ington.  Then  after  two  years  the  war  party  was  over 
thrown,  and  the  change  brought  bitter  days  to  Miss  Van 
Lew.  Perhaps — as  her  superiors  fretfully  reported — she 
did  owe  her  place  to  "sentimental  reasons,"  perhaps  her 
"peculiar  temperament"  did  make  her  "a  hindrance  to 
the  other  clerks,"  perhaps  she  did  "come  and  go  at  will." 
It  was  recommended  that  she  be  reduced  to  "a  clerkship 
of  the  lowest  salary  and  grade" — and  it  was  done;  but 
she  mutely  clung  to  her  only  means  of  livelihood.  Two 
weeks  later  there  appeared  in  a  Northern  newspaper  a 
sneering  editorial.  "A  Troublesome  Relict,"  it  began, 
and  closed,  "We  draw  the  line  at  Miss  Van  Lew."  And 
then  she  wrote  her  resignation,  and,  a  heartbroken  old 
woman,  she  returned  to  the  lonely  house  on  Church  Hill. 

There,  in  desperation,  and  stung  by  the  taunt  made  to 
her  that  "the  South  would  not  have  forsaken  her  as  the 
North  had  done  had  she  espoused  the  Southern  cause," 
she  wrote  to  Northern  friends  for  help.  To  send  the  letter, 
she  was  obliged  to  borrow  a  stamp  from  a  negro.  The 
letter  brought  a  response  that  was  quick  and  generous; 
Boston  men — those  friends  and  relatives  of  Col.  Paul 
Revere1  whom  she  had  helped  in  Libby  Prison — gave 

1  George  Higginson,  Col.  Henry  Lee,  J.  Ingersoll  Bowditch,  Frederick  L. 
Ames,  F.  Gordon  Dexter,  Hon.  John  M.  Forbes,  William  Endicott, 
and  Mrs.  G.  Rowland  Shaw. 


MISS    VAN    LEW 

an  ample  annuity,  which  for  her  remaining  years  pro 
cured  those  comforts  which  money  could  buy;  but  there 
was  that  for  which  money  had  no  purchasing  power. 

' '  I  live  here  in  the  most  perfect  isolation.  No  one  will 
walk  with  us  on  the  street,  no  one  will  go  with  us  any 
where  [Miss  Van  Lew  and  an  invalid  niece  were  all  that 
were  left  of  the  family];  and  it  grows  worse  and  worse 
as  the  years  roll  on  and  those  I  love  go  to  their  long 
rest." 

And  so,  at  last,  in  the  old  mansion  with  its  haunting 
memories,  nursed  by  an  old  negress  to  whom  she  had 
given  freedom  long  years  before,  Miss  Van  Lew  died. 

There  is  but  one  paragraph  more  to  be  written — to  be 
copied  from  a  torn  scrap  of  paper  among  her  manu 
scripts  : 

"If  I  am  entitled  to  the  name  of  'Spy'  because  I  was 
in  the  Secret  Service,  I  accept  it  willingly;  but  it  will  here 
after  have  to  my  mind  a  high  and  honorable  signification. 
For  my  loyalty  to  my  country  I  have  two  beautiful 
names — here  I  am  called  'Traitor,'  farther  North  a  'Spy' 
— instead  of  the  honored  name  of  Faithful." 


YOUNG 

WHEN  the  pages  of  this  memoir  have  been  read,  and 
laid  aside,  and  then  in  the  course  of  time  have  been  all 
but  quite  forgotten,  there  shall  yet  linger  a  memory  that 
will  stir  when  chance  brings  some  passing  mention  of 
his  name,  or  maybe  at  mere  reference  to  the  Secret  Ser 
vice.  A  confused  memory  perhaps,  a  memory  of  count 
less  desperate  chances,  of  services  that  weigh  heavy  in 
the  balance  scale  of  Victory;  remembrance  of  his  youth 
and  courage,  and,  at  the  last,  an  ever-questioning  memory, 
vague  as  in  the  telling,  of  that  final  unrecorded  battle; 
but  outlasting  all  other  recollections  of  the  man  there 
shall  be  this  one  concrete  impression — admiration. 

Who  can  quite  forget  such  tributes  as  were  paid  him 
by  his  generals? — Sheridan's  "I  want  him!"  and  the  reply 
of  General  Edwards,  '  *  I  would  rather  you  would  take  my 
right  arm  than  to  have  you  take  him  from  me."  Best  of 
all,  the  splendid  profanity  of  one  among  his  soldiers — 
a  tribute  rugged  and  imperishable  as  rough-hewn  granite, 
11  We  think  God  A'mighty  of  him." 

It  is  like  a  picture — that  first  story  that  begins  before 
he  was  a  soldier:  the  dusty  chaise  in  which  there  stands 
the  boy  Young — he  was  scarcely  more  than  a  boy  even 
when  he  was  commissioned  lieutenant-colonel  four 
years  later — and  at  his  side  the  solemn-eyed  little  girl 
of  ten,  breathlessly  watching  brother  Henry  as  he  talks, 

100 


HARRY   YOUNG 
From  a  Daguerreotype  taken  at  the  outbreak  of  the  War 


YOUNCJ 


watching  him  to  the  forgetting  of  the  horse  she  holds,  and 
the  place  her  finger  marks  for  him  in  the  book  of  Military 
Tactics,  forgetful  of  the  very  crowd  that  hems  them  in  and 
that  stands  with  upturned,  troubled  faces.  For  back 
ground  to  the  picture  the  street  of  a  New  England  village 
— elms,  and  white  houses,  flecks  of  sunlight  on  the  dusty 
road,  and  the  unclouded  May  sky;  but  none  of  these  must 
be  seen  very  plainly,  for  they  do  not  count  in  the  picture. 

The  nation  is  at  war  and  must  have  men — must  have 
men.  And  the  crowd  presses  closer  about  the  chaise 
and  restlessly  listens,  until  its  occupants  drive  away 
without  looking  back,  for  the  boy  is  already  deep  in 
Tactics  and  the  little  girl  is  driving. 

So,  through  the  Blackstone  Valley;  in  every  village  the 
boy  calls  a  crowd  about  him,  and  at  the  end  of  one  day's 
haranguing  sixty-three  men  have  volunteered  to  enlist 
with  him. 

But  Rhode  Island's  quota  had  been  already  filled  when 
he  took  the  list  to  Colonel  Slocum;  and  so  he  went  back 
to  his  work  in  Providence,  with  God  knows  what  of  dis 
appointment,  and  settled  down  again  at  the  high  stool 
and  the  ledgers  in  Lippitt  &  Martin's.  But  already  he 
had  left  behind  him  that  unforgetable  impression- 
admiration.  Colonel  Slocum  sent  for  him,  and  on  June 
6,  1 86 1,  he  was  mustered  in  with  the  regiment  as  Company 
B's  second  lieutenant — so  pale,  so  office-stamped,  such 
a  slender  little  lieutenant,  that  Wright,  his  robust  captain, 
growled:  "He  will  be  flat  on  his  back  after  the  first  march! 
What  does  that  young  man  expect  to  do  in  the  army?" 
Yet  it  was  the  second  lieutenant  that  very  night  who 
silenced  the  angry,  mutinous  men  in  the  bare,  empty 
barracks  of  the  Dexter  Grounds.  He  might  have  stayed 

101 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

in  the  comfortable  quarters  of  his  brother  officers,  but 
instead,  grasping  the  situation  at  a  glance,  he  shouted, 
"It's  about  time  to  turn  in,  boys, ' '  and  he  spread  a  blanket, 
wrapped  himself  in  his  coat,  and  lay  down  on  the  hard 
floor  among  them.  "Lie  right  down,"  he  called,  cheer 
fully;  and  the  men,  abashed,  yet  pleased  and  touched 
withal,  lay  down  good-humoredly  about  him.  That  was 
the  beginning,  and  it  was  like  that  till  the  very  end — 
always,  where  he  led,  men  followed  with  implicit  con 
fidence. 

Six  weeks  later,  at  Bull  Run,  they — the  men  of  Company 
B — followed  like  veterans  where  he  led  them — he,  the 
second  lieutenant,  who  was  to  have  been  flat  on  his  back; 
it  was  Captain  Wright,  the  prophet,  who  occupied  the 
cot  bed  in  the  hospital,  ill;  the  first  lieutenant  was  absent. 
The  acting  captain  of  Company  B  did  not  escape  notice 
that  July  Sunday.  One  eye-witness  says,  "I  can  remem 
ber  how  small  he  looked,  his  sword  trailing  on  the  ground, 
his  slight  figure  so  full  of  fire  and  energy."  And  it  is 
said  that  fighting  soldiers  of  other  regiments  paused  and 
turned  to  look  again  at  "such  a  boy  in  command  of  a 
company."  Had  he  been  a  great,  strapping  fellow,  the 
fewness  of  his  years  might  have  passed  unnoticed,  but  he 
was  not  five  feet  five  in  height,  and  very  slender;  it 
seemed  that  a  child  had  come  out  to  lead  them.  That 
he  led  them  well  is  shown  by  a  first  lieutenant's  commis 
sion,  dated  July  226.. 

In  a  letter  to  his  mother  a  short  time  after  this  he 
wrote : 

You  say  you  should  think  it  [the  suffering]  would  discourage  any  one 
from  going  to  the  war.  The  fact  is,  no  one  knows  what  fighting  is  till 
they  have  seen  it;  and  they  that  have,  after  it  is  over  and  they  think 

102 


YOUNG 

about  it,  would  like  to  see  it  over  again.  There  is  an  excitement  about 
it,  there  is  a  longing  for  it  again  that  no  one  knows  who  has  not  ex 
perienced  it. 

Much  of  his  character  will  be  understood  that  could 
never  be  understood  without  those  pregnant  sentences. 
Read  them  again,  for  they  contain  that  sentiment  which 
was  to  be  the  lodestar,  the  north  toward  which  the  needle 
of  his  life  was  to  point  unswervingly  till  the  end — the 
love  of  fighting  and  of  danger. 

General  Oliver  Edwards — and  no  one  knew  Young 
better — has  written: 

It  was  very  rare  to  find  a  man  who  found  in  the  most  deadly  peril 
his  greatest  pleasure,  and  who  sought  out  danger,  not  only  in  the  line 
of  duty,  but  because  he  reveled  in  it.  Colonel  Henry  H.  Young  and 
General  Phil  Kearny  possessed  this  trait  of  character.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  his  crossing  of  the  Rappahannock  at  Fred- 
ericksburg  had  something  to  do  with  his  first  staff  ap 
pointment — Fredericksburg,  where  Captain  Young  led 
Company  B  (since  November  13,  '61,  his  own  company) 
over  the  pontoon  bridge  in  the  face  of  the  fire  of  the 
sharpshooters.  And  with  this  appointment,  which  de 
tached  him  from  his  regiment,  there  ended  his  relations 
with  the  men  of  his  old  company.  What  the  men  thought 
of  him  one  of  them  had  told  unwittingly  to  the  mother 
of  his  captain.  It  was  in  the  hospital  at  Portsmouth 
Grove,  where  Mrs.  Young  and  her  little  daughter — the 
little  girl  who  drove  that  day  in  the  Blackstone  Valley — 
had  gone  to  carry  comforts  to  the  men  of  the  Second 
Rhode  Island.  She  had  had  shown  to  her  the  cot  where 
lay  a  man  of  Company  B — his  company.  To  the  man,  who 
had  never  before  seen  her,  the  question,  "Do  you  like 

103 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

your  captain?"  must  have  seemed  an  idle  one,  but  it 
roused  him  as  could  no  other. 

"Like  him,  ma'am?"  he  cried,  vehemently.  "We 
think  God  A 'mighty  of  him!  There  never  was  any  one 
like  him;  the  men  would  lay  down  their  lives  for  him  any 
day."  It  was  admiration — idolatry — like  that  that  he 
had  left  behind  him. 

It  may  be  that  in  the  staff  appointment  he  foresaw  the 
opportunity  to  commence  the  work  that  Sheridan  has 
called  "invaluable";  or  perhaps,  once  on  the  staff,  he 
merely  drifted  into  it ;  but  however  it  was,  he  began  then 
his  self-taught,  self-sought  apprenticeship  to  the  Secret 
Service.  Camp  life  grew  irksome,  and  he  went  out  be 
tween  the  lines  to  quicken  it. 

Once  he  saved  a  supply  train  from  certain  capture  by 
raiders  whose  plans  he  had  discovered.  Discovered  how? 
— at  what  personal  hazard?  If  ever  he  told,  it  was  in 
some  such  unsatisfying  manner  as  the  story  of  fighting 
his  way  out  of  a  guerrilla  ambush  is  told  in  a  letter  to 
his  mother: 

I  went  out  the  other  day  on  a  little  expedition  over  the  mountains 
— three  of  us,  all  mounted  on  mules.  We  went  some  six  miles  outside 
of  our  picket-lines,  and  got  in  among  the  guerrillas  after  we  had  crossed 
what  is  called  Carter's  Run.  We  were  fired  on,  but  made  out  to  get 
away.  One  of  the  boys  lost  his  mule  and  equipments.  The  mule 
balked  when  they  commenced  firing,  and  would  not  stir  a  step,  and 
they  pressed  the  man  so  hard  he  had  to  take  to  the  woods  afoot. 
I  think  that  I  shall  explore  that  section  again  at  an  early  date. 

And  in  another  letter: 

A  scout's  life  is  a  dangerous  one  to  a  certain  extent,  but  I  don't 
know,  after  all,  that  it  is  more  so  than  a  great  many  other  positions. 

Well  indeed  might  he  say  that ! — he  of  whom  his  brigade 
commander  wrote: 

104 


YOUNG 

When  you  wished  an  order  carried  to  any  part  of  the  field  he 
[Young]  did  not  look  about  for  the  safest  route  but  took  the  most 
direct  one,  no  matter  how  the  bullets  whistled.  He  was  always  ready 
to  dash  through  the  hottest  place,  to  cheer  on  a  wavering  regiment 
or  to  rally  a  disorganized  one.  While  the  battle  [Marye's  Heights] 
was  at  its  height  he  discovered  a  wounded  soldier  of  the  Second  Rhode 
Island  in  such  a  position  that  he  was  exposed  to  the  fire  of  both  sides. 
Leaping  from  his  horse,  amid  a  shower  of  bullets,  he  was  himself 
wounded  in  the  arm,  but  dragged  the  poor  fellow  to  the  shelter  of  a 
tree;  it  was  but  the  work  of  a  moment,  yet  amid  the  noise  -and  con 
fusion  of  battle  seemed  wonderfully  cool  and  deliberate. 

And  all  this  time  the  duties  of  a  staff  officer  continued, 
varied  only  by  free-lance  scoutings  to  gratify  the  longing 
for  excitement;  the  other  life  was  beyond  him  still,  but 
he  was  reaching  out  to  grasp  it.  Chancellorsville,  Gettys 
burg,  Rappahannock  Station,  Mine  Run,  Wilderness, 
Spottsylvania,  Cold  Harbor — he  was  of  the  brigade  head 
quarters  staff  at  all  of  them. 

And  then  the  Shenandoah,  the  valley  in  which  the  name 
of  Major  Harry  Young  was  to  be  known  and  dreaded 
and  respected  in  every  household  throughout  its  length 
and  breadth:  the  place  and  the  man  were  together;  the 
time  was  almost  upon  them.  After  the  battle  of  the 
Opequon — September  19,  1864 — Col.  Oliver  Edwards 
was  left  in  command  of  Winchester,  and  Young  was  his 
Inspector-General.  It  was  part  of  his  staff  duty  to 
familiarize  himself  with  all  the  roads  round  about 
Winchester,  and  he  was  almost  daily  in  Confederate 
uniform  scouting  through  the  Valley;  he  was  now  on 
that  intangible  border  line  which  separates  the  army 
scouts  from  men  of  the  Secret  Service. 

At  this  time  there  was  in  the  Valley  a  body  of  scouts 
from  General  Crook's  command — a  hundred  men  on 
detached  service  commanded  by  one  Captain  Blazer — 

105 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

who  were  engaged  in  a  war  to  the  death  with  the  parti 
san  battalions  of  Gilmor,  McNeill,  and  Mosby.  Captain 
Young  at  every  opportunity  rode  out  at  the  side  of  Cap 
tain  Blazer,  and  from  him  learned  much  of  the  methods 
of  such  irregular  warfare,  much  that  must  afterward 
have  proved  of  incalculable  value  when  he  was  head  of 
Sheridan's  Secret  Service.  Later  on,  Mosby 's  Captain 
" Dolly"  Richards  all  but  wiped  out  Blazer's  little  com 
mand  in  a  savage  hand-to-hand  battle,  in  which  Captain 
Blazer's  career  was  closed  by  his  capture.  After  that 
Captain  Young  adopted  different  methods.  At  one 
time  he  induced  three  of  Colonel  Edwards 's  men  to  ap 
parently  desert  from  the  Union  army  and  enlist  with 
Mosby,  to  whom  one  of  them  got  so  close  as  to  be  even 
orderly  at  the  partisan  leader's  headquarters;  but  they 
must  have  been  the  wrong  men  for  their  opportunity,  for 
nothing  seems  to  have  come  of  it,  and  Young  restlessly 
turned  to  other  schemes.  A  well-planned  trap  was  in 
advertently  sprung  by  a  detachment  of  Federal  cavalry 
not  in  Young's  secret.  Soon  after  this,  Sheridan  lifted 
Young  up  to  so  broad  a  field  of  endeavor  that  such  work 
shrank  to  secondary  importance.  But  that  was  not 
until  he  had  outfaced  Death  in  two  desperate  personal 
encounters.  Once  was  on  the  Front  Royal  road  in  the 
late  afternoon  of  a  summer  day — one  of  those  hot,  dusty, 
breathless  days  when  the  great  pallid  cumulus  clouds 
heap  up,  mountain  upon  mountain,  then  flush,  then  dull 
and  darken  into  presagers  of  the  coming  storm.  Young, 
alone,  miles  outside  the  Federal  outposts,  was  galloping 
back  to  Winchester  from  another  of  his  lonely,  restless 
scoutings — he  seems  always  to  have  preferred  to  be  alone ; 
other  scouts  went  out  in  pairs,  he  seemed  fascinated  by  the 

1 06 


YOUNG 

desolation  of  unshared  dangers.  In  the  thick  hush  before 
the  breaking  of  the  storm,  he  should  have  heard — but 
perhaps  the  muttering  thunder  drowned  the  drum  of  the 
approaching  hoof  beats;  they  turned  in  from  a  cross-road 
close  behind  him — a  party  of  Confederate  cavalry.  In 
an  instant  the  pursuit  began.  He  tried  to  outdistance 
them,  but  the  little  gray — so  often  mentioned  in  his  let 
ters  home — was  tired,  and  Young  knew  it;  he  suddenly 
stopped,  turned  at  right  angles,  and  put  him  at  the  wall; 
with  a  supreme  effort  the  gray  cleared  the  ditch,  cleared 
the  wall,  and  began  the  struggle  up  the  long  slope  to  the 
dense  woodland  that  crowned  it.  Two  only,  on  the 
fleetest  mounts,  took  the  wall,  and  followed;  the  rest  re 
fused  it,  and  after  a  moment's  confusion  raced  down  the 
road  to  head  him  off  should  he  come  back  to  the  road 
where  it  turned  along  the  second  side  of  the  forest.  The 
two,  shouting,  were  overtaking  him;  he  turned  on  them 
and  charged  furiously  down  upon  them,  shooting  as  he 
rode ;  they  fled,  yelling  for  their  comrades.  Then  he  rode 
into  the  shelter  of  the  wood,  and,  but  a  few  rods  from  its 
edge,  he  hid  the  trembling  gray,  and  flung  himself  face 
down,  burrowing  into  the  leaf  mold. 

The  storm  broke;  day  was  stripped  of  an  hour  by  the 
darkness ;  the  trees  grew  loud  in  the  rush  of  the  wind,  and 
the  earth  trembled  with  the  unusually  violent  thunder. 
The  Confederates  came  back;  he  could  hear  them  above 
the  lash  of  the  rain — calling  to  each  other  and  crashing 
about  in  the  thickets.  He  had  stopped  so  near  the  point 
where  he  had  entered  the  wood  that  they  did  not  search 
there;  but  they  passed  perilously  close,  and  once  he  was 
sure  they  would  find  him.  They  gave  it  up  at  last  and 
went  away;  he  learned  afterward  from  a  prisoner  that 

107 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

the  leader,  blinded  by  the  lightning's  glare,  had  been 
dashed  against  a  low  bough  and  seriously  injured. 

After  a  while  he  led  his  horse  out  from  the  dripping 
trees,  and  rode  unmolested  back  to  the  army. 

The  Valley  was  scourged  with  a  plague  of  bushwhackers 
— robbers  and  murderers  who  had  deserted  from  regular 
commands  of  both  armies  and  had  turned  war  to  their 
own  advantage.  There  were  verbal  orders  from  General 
Sheridan  to  hang  all  those  that  were  proved  bush 
whackers,  and  Young  compiled  a  "blacklist"  of  all  such 
in  the  vicinity  of  Winchester — their  names  and  haunts 
and  habits.  On  days  when  no  other  duties  were  pressing 
he  would  go  out  with  one  or  two  men  and  hunt  down  some 
of  the  blacklisted.  The  record  of  one  such  day's  hunting 
is  still  remembered — as  much,  perhaps,  for  the  personality 
of  the  hunted  as  for  the  unusual  courage  of  the  hunter. 
It  was  known  of  the  hunted  that  he  had  been  a  member 
of  a  Virginia  cavalry  regiment,  had  had  a  sixty-day  fur 
lough  in  order  to  procure  a  body-servant,  but  that  he  had 
been  absent  from  his  command  for  more  than  nine  months 
and  was  a  deserter  and  a  bushwhacker — a  murderer  of 
prisoners;  indeed,  by  his  own  boasts,  known  as  the 
"  Prisoner-  Killer  " ;  yet  he  could  count  on  a  score  of  houses 
in  the  Valley  for  help  and  shelter,  for  he  was  a  tall,  hand 
some  fellow,  cool  and  audacious.  Captain  Young  in 
some  way  found  out  that  day's  hiding-place  of  the 
"Killer,"  and,  hurrying  to  headquarters,  he  asked  of 
Colonel  Edwards  a  detail  of  two  men;  with  his  men  he 
galloped  away  up  the  Valley.  The  "Killer"  in  some  way 
escaped,  barely  escaped,  and  they  followed,  rapidly  over 
taking  him.  The  "Killer"  fired  once,  and  a  horse  went 
down  in  a  wild  tangle  of  flying  hoofs;  the  other  riders 

108 


YOUNG 

leaped  clear  of  their  fallen  comrade  with  never  a  look 
behind  them.  A  bend  in  the  road,  and  then  out  upon  a 
mile-long  straightaway;  Young  and  the  "Killer"  fire 
almost  together;  the  second  soldier  pitches  backward, 
and  the  "Killer's"  horse  goes  down  in  a  heap  in  a  ditch 
at  the  roadside;  the  "Killer"  is  down,  then  up  again, 
and  in  a  second  is  into  the  thicket.  .  .  .  When  consciousness 
came  to  the  wounded  soldier  he  found  himself  alone; 
the  faint  sounds  from  the  distant  thicket  told  of  a  terrible 
struggle,  and  he  stared  stupidly  at  the  point  nearest  the 
fallen  horse  of  the  "Killer." 

After  a  long  time,  when  there  had  been  a  protracted 
silence,  the  bushes  parted,  and  there  came  forth  the 
"Killer,"  white-faced  and  bruised  and  bound,  with  Cap 
tain  Young,  carrying  two  heavy  revolvers,  grimly  urging 
him  forward.  Neither  had  been  able  to  use  his  weapons, 
but  they  had  fought  it  out  there  in  the  underbrush,  and 
by  some  marvel  of  fighting  the  fierce  little  New-Englander 
had  conquered  a  man  over  six  feet  tall,  and  heavy  in  pro 
portion.  Somehow  he  got  his  prisoner  and  his  two  wound 
ed  men  back  to  headquarters,  and  there  the  trial  of  the 
"Killer"  was  a  short  one;  perhaps  it  had  been  better  for 
him  had  he  been  killed  there  in  the  bushes !  There  were 
papers  found  on  him  that  proved  him  beyond  doubt  to 
be  the  murderer  of  prisoners.  Colonel  Edwards  sternly 
told  him  that  he  might  live  just  so  long  as  it  took  to  dig 
his  grave,  and  asked  him  if  he  did  not  want  to  see  a 
chaplain. 

"I  do  not  want  to  see  a  chaplain,"  he  answered,  with  as 
little  concern  as  though  the  matter  in  no  way  affected 
him.  "Every  man  has  to  die  once,  and  it  makes  but 
little  difference  to  me  when  my  time  comes."  Ke  was 

109 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

so  wonderfully  cool  and  brave  about  it  that  Young  im 
petuously  interceded  for  his  life,  as  did  the  other  staff 
officers.  And  just  here  the  story  told  by  General  Oliver 
Edwards — for  it  is  General  Edwards  who  tells  the  story — 
comes  to  an  abrupt  end,  to  leave  one  with  an  ever- 
haunting  question  that  is  to  be  never  answered. 

And  now  the  years  of  preparation  were  at  an  end, 
and  the  long,  gradual  up-grade  lay  behind  him ;  in  front 
rose  a  mountain  of  labor — a  mountain  perpendicular 
with  hardship  and  danger;  its  peak  a  pinnacle,  to  which 
he  climbed  and  carved  his  name  there. 

The  Northern  Presidential  election  of  1864  was  watched 
eagerly.  The  success  or  defeat  of  the  Democratic  party 
with  its  platform  "The  war  is  a  failure"  meant  life  or 
death  to  the  Confederacy,  and  they  did  more  than  watch 
the  election.  Kenly's  Maryland  brigade,  with  Sheridan's 
army,  had  been  permitted  to  vote  in  the  field;  to  Colonel 
Mosby  was  given  the  order  to  capture  the  ballot-boxes 
and  prevent  the  vote,  en  route  to  Martinsburg,  from  ever 
reaching  Baltimore.  The  two  companies  of  cavalry 
serving  as  escort  were  fiercely  attacked  by  Mosby  when 
but  two  miles  out  of  Winchester  and  driven  back;  it  re 
quired  an  entire  regiment  to  carry  the  commissioners 
and  the  ballot  safely  through  to  the  railroad. 

At  the  same  time  a  citizen  rode  into  Winchester  and 
excitedly  told  Colonel  Edwards  that  Breckinridge  was 
advancing  on  the  town  with  an  army,  and  already  was 
within  twenty  miles.  Edwards  forwarded  the  report 
to  Sheridan,  and  then  sent  out  scouts  and  prepared  for 
battle.  Sheridan  in  reply  sent  the  message: 

I  am  aware  of  the  movement  but  do  not  know  what  it  means.  My 
scouts  fail  to  bring  me  reliable  information.  If  the  enemy  attacks 

no 


YOUNG 

Winchester,  fight  him  if  you  feel  strong  enough ;  if  not,  start  your  trains 
for  Harper's  Ferry,  put  your  back  on  your  trains,  and  fight  for  them. 
Find  out  if  possible  what  the  movement  means;  the  whole  secret- 
service  fund  is  at  your  disposal  for  this  purpose. 

Colonel  Edwards  answered  that  he  did  not  believe 
Winchester  to  be  the  objective  point,  but  if  it  were  that 
he  was  ready.  Then  he  waited.  When  his  scouts  came 
back  with  no  definite  information  of  the  enemy's  move 
ments,  it  was  then  that  Captain  Young  begged  Colonel 
Edwards  for  permission  to  try  to  obtain  this  vital  informa 
tion,  and  Edwards  reluctantly  let  him  go.  He  asked  only 
for  three  picked  men  and  four  Confederate  cavalry  uni 
forms — no  horses,  even,  for  he  said  that  he  preferred  to 
mount  himself  and  his  men  after  leaving  Winchester. 
Captain  Young  proposed  to  attempt  one  of  the  most 
desperate  of  all  military  necessities — to  join  the  enemy's 
marching  column  and  ride  with  them  until  he  had  gained 
the  information.  To  pass  pickets  and  enter  an  enemy's 
encampment  is,  so  it  is  said,  easy;  to  join  a  column  on  a 
march — and  such  a  march! — has  been  found  well-nigh 
impossible.  Jack  Sterry  had  tried  it  at  the  second 
Manassas,  and  Jack  Sterry  had  been  hanged  for  it. 
Henry  Harrison  Young  tried  the  impossible  and  succeed 
ed.  How  he  did  it  would  be  told  here,  should  be  told 
here,  with  every  detail  of  every  danger  met  and  over 
come,  for  no  achievement  of  the  Secret  Service  is  more 
worthy  of  record — only  that  the  story  is  not  known.  He 
was  one  who  reported  results,  not  details,  and  if  he  ever 
related  the  hidden  history  of  that  journey  it  has  died 
with  them  to  whom  he  told  it.  But  this  is  what  he  did— 
it  shall  be  written  simply,  that  every  word  may  be  re 
membered  by  all  who  love  to  honor  American  heroes: 

in 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

For  two  hours  he  rode  with  Lomax's  cavalry  or  marched 
with  the  infantry  of  Breckinridge.  Forty-five  miles  they 
rode — he  and  his  three  men,  riding  down  three  sets  of 
horses,  which  they  seized  for  reliefs  as  they  needed 
them. 

Yet  it  was  all  done  in  the  short  space  of  six  hours, 
and  when  he  dismounted  at  Edwards 's  headquarters  he 
bore  full  information  of  the  plans  of  the  enemy.  There 
had  been  ample  time  to  have  frustrated  these  plans, 
but  that  Breckinridge's  return  was  so  threatened  that  even 
then  he  was  in  hurried  retreat  with  an  abandoned  purpose. 
Winchester  had  been  but  a  feint;  Hancock,  Maryland — 
there  to  destroy  the  vote  or  to  break  up  the  election — 
had  been  the  real  objective. 

Colonel  Edwards  himself  took  the  report  to  General 
Sheridan. 

"That  is  true,  every  word  of  it,  I  believe,"  Sheridan 
cried,  vehemently.  "Now,  where  did  you  get  it?" 

Edwards  told  him  how  his  own  professional  scouts 
had  failed  in  the  same  degree  as  had  his,  and  that  his 
inspector-general,  Young,  had  volunteered  and  had 
succeeded. 

Sheridan  became  greatly  excited:  "I  have  been  look 
ing  for  that  man  for  two  years,  and  I  want  him." 

Colonel  Edwards  spoke  slowly:  "I  would  rather  you 
would  take  my  right  arm  than  to  take  him  from  me." 

Sheridan's  answer  was  quick,  impetuous,  eager:  "I 
will  make  him  a  major  and  a  personal  aide-de-camp  on 
my  staff;  I  will  let  him  pick  a  hundred  men  and  arm  them 
and  command  them  as  he  likes,  and  report  only  to  me. 
I  will  not  take  an  officer  of  your  staff  from  you  without 
your  consent,  but — I  want  him!" 

112 


YOUNG 

For  a  time  there  was  silence,  Edwards  weighing  the 
offer,  Sheridan  waiting. 

Then,  "I  will  urge  him  to  accept  the  offer,"  Colonel 
Edwards  answered.  He  had  to  urge  him.  For,  though 
he  loved  the  life  held  out  to  him,  Captain  Young  refused 
decidedly  to  leave  Edwards,  until  convinced  that  it  was 
indeed  a  duty  to  accept  a  position  offering  greater  op 
portunities  for  more  valuable  work  for  the  Union. 

The  war  was  within  five  months  of  the  end;  but  into 
that  time  there  was  crowded  more  work  by  the  Secret 
Service  than  had  been  done  in  all  the  years  that  preceded. 
They  say  of  him  that  Major  Young  never  rested ;  to  have 
done  what  he  has  done  confirms  it.  It  was  as  though 
there  had  been  drawn  a  sword,  keen,  high-tempered, 
brilliant,  that  for  the  first  time  left  its  scabbard  and  for 
the  first  time  discovered  its  mission. 

Major  Young  at  once  commenced  the  organization  of 
his  new  command;  the  men  he  carefully  selected  from 
those  he  knew  best  in  Colonel  Edwards's  brigade;  also, 
he  retained  the  seven  who  had  served  as  scouts  for  Sheri 
dan.  The  corps  never  numbered  the  even  hundred; 
the  roll-book,  which  was  kept  by  and  is  still  in  the  posses 
sion  of  Sergeant  McCabe,  shows  but  fifty-eight  names  all 
told.  There  were  few  enough  to  answer  "present"  when 
the  five  months  were  ended.  That  there  were  any  at 
all  is  the  wonder  after  service  such  as  this,  which  must 
have  been  for  the  trying-out  of  their  courage;  after  such 
a  test  there  could  never  again  be  doubt  of  it! 

This  expedition  was  made  within  a  few  days  after  the 

men  had  been  selected,  dressed  in  the  gray  uniform,  and 

armed  with  two  revolvers  each — carried  in  the  tops  of 

the  high  boots — and  the  short,  terrible  Spencer  carbines. 

8  113 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

Night  had  fallen  when  they  left  the  camp,  and  for  a  long 
time  the  men  rode  without  knowing  where  they  were 
going  or  the  work  that  lay  before  them;  then  Young 
halted  and  carefully  instructed  them  and  told  them  his 
purpose.  Sixty  men  were  to  attack  an  entire  brigade 
of  Confederate  cavalry !  They  rode  on  again  in  the  dark 
ness — perhaps  blacker  now  to  each  man  as  he  considered 
the  desperate  chances.  After  a  time  they  halted  and 
drew  off  into  the  edge  of  a  forest  bordering  a  road  on  which 
Major  Young  had  learned  the  Confederate  column  would 
travel;  there  followed  a  wait  that  must  have  seemed  end 
less — the  dreaded  inaction  just  before  battle.  The  well- 
trained  horses  stood  with  drooping  heads,  like  statues; 
the  raw  November  night-wind  chilled  as  though  a  corpse 
had  suddenly  risen  and  breathed  upon  them;  and  still 
the  Confederates  did  not  come ;  the  strain  must  have  been 
horrible.  Then  above  the  dry-bone  knock  and  creak  of 
the  bare  branches  of  the  forest  behind  them  there  came 
a  new  sound — the  sound  of  a  distant  cavalry  column, 
trotting;  the  low  rumble  and  jar  of  thousands  of  hoof- 
falls;  the  tiny  jangles  and  tinklings  of  countless  metal 
accoutrements.  The  advance  passed  in  a  shadowy 
flitting;  the  tired  men  riding  in  silence — only  the  noise 
of  the  now-galloping  horses. 

Young  gave  a  signal,  and  the  men  stole  out  from  among 
the  trees,  leading  the  horses ;  at  the  roadside  they  mounted, 
and  waited.  The  head  of  the  column  approached,  and 
they  fell  in  with  it  and  jogged  along,  slouching  in  the 
saddles  as  did  the  worn,  sleepy  Confederates,  to  whom 
they  seemed  but  a  returned  scouting  party,  dully  noted, 
instantly  forgotten. 

Major  Young  gave  a  shrill  signal,  whirled  his  horse 

114 


YOUNG 

about,  and  fired  his  carbine  in  the  faces  of  the  Confed 
erate  troopers.  His  men  followed  him;  the  carbines 
roared  like  artillery ;  bullets  raked  the  column,  down  whose 
bloody  lanes  the  Yankees  rode  at  the  charge,  firing  their 
revolvers  on  either  side  without  mercy.  The  attack 
coming  out  of  their  midst  was  a  blinding  shock  to  the  Con 
federates;  to  them  it  was  mutiny,  treason,  murder.  The 
rest  is  all  told  in  one  word — pandemonium.  And  all  but 
one  Union  soldier  came  through  that  charge  down  the 
entire  length  of  the  column. 

After  that  night  terror  came  to  the  Confederates  in 
the  Valley — not  to  the  army,  but  to  the  army's  soldiers: 
pickets  rode  to  their  stations,  and  were  not  there  when 
their  comrades  rode  to  relieve  them;  guards  fired  at 
shadows ;  men  about  outlying  camp-fires  huddled  together 
closer  than  the  cold  could  have  driven  them;  from 
nerve-racked  vedettes  would  come  a  ' '  Halt-who-comes- 
there!" — and  then  an  instant  volley;  Confederate  patrols 
and  scouting  parties  rode  back  to  their  own  lines  with 
more  trepidation  than  up  to  the  lines  of  the  enemy. 
Yankees  in  gray  were  known  to  be  hovering  about  the 
army  always — were  known  to  be  in  the  lines,  within  the 
encampments;  some  were  captured;  there  were  always 
others  who  took  their  places.  Most  secret  plans  were 
found  sooner  or  later  to  have  a  hole  in  them. 

Back  at  Sheridan's  headquarters  there  was  one  man 
doing  it  all.  It  can  never  be  told,  for  it  was  never  known 
—the  details  of  organizing  the  Secret  Service  of  Sheridan's 
army  of  the  Shenandoah,  for  it  was  all  done  in  the  head 
of  that  one  man,  who  was  ever  tirelessly  planning,  quietly 
directing,  inspiring.  Of  the  work  of  the  Service  for  the 
first  two  months,  General  Sheridan  wrote  in  his  Memoirs: 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

I  now  realized  more  than  I  had  done  hitherto  how  efficient  my 
scouts  had  become  since  under  the  control  of  Colonel  Young,  for  not 
only  did  they  bring  me  almost  every  day  intelligence  from  within 
Early 's  lines,  but  they  also  operated  efficiently  against  the  guerrillas 
infesting  West  Virginia. 

He  might  have  sat  in  a  tent  and  from  there  merely 
directed — that  in  itself  would  have  been  work  enough  for 
any  man ;  but  instead,  with  every  opportunity  he  was  out 
with  some  party;  fighting  was  his  "leave  of  absence," 
his  recreation.  But  there  were  other  ways  in  which  he 
was  to  the  enemy  more  deadly.  Woodbury  (historian) 
says  of  him,  "In  the  peculiar  service  in  which  he  was  en 
gaged  during  the  last  year  of  the  war  he  had  no  superior 
in  the  Northern  armies."  Most  of  all,  that  sentence 
meant  the  obtaining  of  information.  At  one  time  he 
lived  for  two  weeks  within  the  Confederate  lines,  boarding 
at  a  house  near  Winchester — as  an  invalid!  Through 
acquaintances  made  there  he  obtained  the  information 
he  was  seeking,  and  one  day  rode  quietly  away  with  it. 

Imperturbably  cool,  patient,  shrewd,  with  a  quiet, 
easy  way  about  him,  yet  frank  and  ingenuous — it  seemed 
that  there  was  nothing  he  could  not  accomplish.  It  must 
be,  too,  that  he  had  a  mighty  sense  of  humor;  witness  the 
fate  of  the  Confederate  recruiting-office.  He  came  upon 
it  quite  by  accident,  at  a  little  hamlet,  while  on  one  of  his 
restless,  lonely  scoutings.  It  was  in  full  blast — doing  a 
good  business.  He  rode  up  and,  dismounting,  looked  on 
in  bucolic  placidity. 

"Come  here!"  called  the  sergeant.  "You're  a  likely 
lookin'  young  feller — how  about  enlistin'?"  Young  lis 
tened  to  the  sergeant's  pleadings — "didn't  know  but  what 
he  would  some  day — well,  mebbe  he  would  then."  More 

116 


YOUNG 

argument:  suddenly  the  sergeant  had  him — enlisted. 
He  swore  to  show  up  at  the  appointed  day,  and  there  was 
great  applause — for  the  sergeant.  Did  he  disappoint 
the  sergeant?  Never!  Brought  him  more  recruits- 
Young's  own  men — who  "enlisted"  the  sergeant  and  all 
the  sergeant's  soldiers  and  all  the  assembled,  hard-earned 
recruits,  and  the  entire  contents  of  the  office. 

So  often  was  he  outside  the  lines  that  his  disguises 
had  to  be  changed  and  varied  constantly;  now  it  was  one 
role  now  another — private  soldier,  deserter,  countryman, 
peddler,  Confederate  officer.  Once,  to  test  a  disguise- 
that  of  a  Confederate  colonel — just  before  starting  on 
a  particularly  dangerous  mission,  he  allowed  himself  to 
be  captured  by  men  of  his  own  old  brigade,  who  marched 
their  great  prize  back  to  camp  in  triumph.  He  demanded 
an  interview  at  headquarters,  and  they  took  him  there; 
the  rebel  colonel  never  again  was  seen.  For  a  long  time 
it  was  a  matter  of  much  talk  and  speculation  as  to  why 
the  escape  of  so  important  a  capture  should  go  so  un 
regarded  by  the  General. 

There  was  another  side  to  him  besides  the  fun-loving; 
a  seldom-seen,  terrible  side  of  cold  wrath  and  pitiless 
judgment. 

A  prisoner  had  been  taken  by  Young  and  his  men  on 
one  of  the  countless  night  incursions  into  the  enemy's 
country;  on  the  ride  back  the  identity  of  the  man  was 
discovered  by  some  of  the  men  guarding  him,  and  the 
whisper  ran  through  the  troop  and  grew  into  a  deep, 
savage  mutter  as  story  after  story  of  his  cruelties  and 
cowardice  was  repeated.  One  of  the  men  spurred  ahead 
to  Major  Young's  side. 

"Do  you  know  who  your  prisoner  is,  Major?" 

117 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

"No." 

At  the  answer  Young  reined  in  his  horse  sharply. 

"What's  that!    That  man  is—" 

The  soldier  repeated  the  name — the  name  of  the  leader 
of  the  most  infamous  guerrilla  band  in  all  that  valley;  a 
man  whose  name  brought  to  mind  the  memory  of  crimes 
unmentionable  for  their  atrocity. 

Major  Young  rode  back  through  his  ranks.  .  .  .  No 
execution,  ponderous,  formal,  lawful,  could  have  been 
more  solemn,  more  awe-compelling,  than  that  swift  blot 
ting  out,  there  in  the  night  in  the  silence  of  the  lonely 
country. 

Was  it  only  chance  that,  a  short  time  later,  Young  was 
given  the  opportunity  to  snatch  back  from  certain  death 
unreckoned  scores  of  Union  soldiers,  condemned  that  hour 
to  lay  down  their  lives  for  their  flag?  There  would  be 
given  the  name  of  the  skirmish  (which  in  any  other  war 
would  be  dignified  by  the  name  of  battle),  but  the  name 
is  lost  in  the  crowded  memories  of  the  few  who  knew 
the  story.  But  perhaps  there  will  be  of  those  who  wore 
the  blue  one  who  will  read  this  story  to  whom  there  will 
come  back  the  memory  of  a  morning  with  the  regiments 
that  lay  on  their  faces  at  the  wood's  edge,  galled  and  torn 
by  the  shells  constantly  bursting  among  them,  while 
they  awaited,  restive,  the  order  for  the  charge  across  the 
open  and  the  attempt  to  scale  the  hillside  from  whose 
all  but  impregnable  crest  the  battery  thundered.  Others 
there  are,  of  the  South,  who  will  recall  with  heartburnings 
the  loss  of  an  all  but  won  engagement.  Here,  perhaps 
for  the  first  time,  they  will  learn  the  reason.  Some  may 
now  recollect  having  seen  in  the  driving  smoke  a  boyish, 
gray-clad  officer  who,  in  the  name  of  their  commanding 

118 


YOUNG 

general,  ordered  the  battery  to  take  immediate  position 
on  the  left  flank — there  to  be  utterly  useless.  Perhaps 
they  recall  the  way  he  sat  his  horse,  there  amid  the  flying 
Federal  bullets,  until  he  saw  the  carrying  out  of  his  order; 
then  that  they  had  seen  him  gallop  away — forever, 
leaving  them,  the  dupes,  to  face  their  angered  general. 

Young  had  carried  to  the  Federal  regiment  the  order 
to  take  the  battery — the  key  position  of  the  engagement; 
he  had  seen  the  terrible  slaughter  which  must  be  the  price 
of  success,  and  he  had  not  given  the  order.  Instead  he 
had  formed  a  plan  and  told  it,  then  swiftly  donning  his 
gray  uniform,  and  making  a  detour,  had  entered  the  Con 
federate  lines — at  no  one  knows  what  hazard — and  had 
come  up  behind  the  battery,  to  whose  captain  he  had 
given  a  false  order.  The  astonished  Federal  soldiers 
rushed  the  abandoned  hill  crest  before  the  Confederates 
could  replace  their  guns ;  but  as  for  Major  Young,  an  un 
expected  shift  in  the  position  of  the  army  compelled  him 
to  remain  within  the  Confederate  lines  for  hours  in  im 
minent  danger  of  detection  and  capture — and  death. 

Capture  and  Death  (they  should  be  written  as  one  word 
for  the  case  of  Harry  Young)  never  had  far  to  come,  for 
he  was  always  at  least  half-way  to  meet  them.  Once 
he  reached  too  far  and  fell  in  their  path,  and  it  seemed  that 
at  last  they  had  him ;  it  was  only  the  gallantry  of  his  men 
which  that  day  saved  him — nothing  that  he  himself  did 
for  himself,  except  that  he  had  won  the  devotion  of  the 
men  who  saved  him. 

It  was  on  one  of  those  nights  in  January  when  the  army 
was  in  quarters  but  he  was  not.  There  was  a  Con 
federate  picket  reserve  at  the  Edinburg  bridge,  another 
at  Columbia  Furnace — isolated  detachments  far  in  ad- 

119 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

vance  of  their  army.     It  is  no  story  to  tell  of  their  cap 
ture;  there  was  a  dash  out  of  the  night,  a  few  scattering 
shots,  and  they  had  surrendered — sixty-five  men  in  all, 
and  many  horses.     There  were  nearly  as  many  prisoners 
as  captors;  for  of  the  Federals  there  were  but  a  score  of 
the  Secret  Service  men,  some  in  Confederate  gray,  some 
in  their  blue  uniforms,  and  a  troop  of  fifty  cavalry — on 
their  first  detached  service  and  very  nervous  about  it. 
The  crest  of  Massanutten  Mountain  was  black  and  sharp 
against  the  brightening  sky  before  they  turned  for  the 
long  ride  back  to  the  Union  lines  near  Kernstown.     At 
a  little  village  they  stopped  for  breakfast;  Young  was 
jubilant  over  the  capture — it  had  been  so  easy;  he  was 
merry  at  the  breakfast,  and  joked  with  the  men  about 
him.     Rowand,  one  of  the  scouts,  finished  his  meal  and 
restlessly  wandered  out  to  the  street;  a  butcher  named 
Kuhn  passed  close  to  Rowand  and  whispered,   "Three 
hundred    on    the    'Back    Road,'    coming!"     The    scout 
hurried  in  with  the  tidings,  but  Major  Harry  Young  that 
day  was  foolhardy.     "I'll  not   budge  till   I  finish  my 
breakfast,"  he  said,  laughing.     Campbell,  one  of  Sheri 
dan's  oldest  scouts,  added  his  unavailing  protests;  Young 
ate  on  placidly.     When  he  finished  he  leisurely  gave  the 
order  to  mount,  and  then  saw  that  he  was  indeed  too  late 
—that  he  had  overtarried;  the  Confederate  cavalry  was 
sweeping  into  the  upper  end  of  the  mile-long  village  street. 
At   almost   the  first  fire   the  raw   Federal   cavalrymen 
abandoned  their  prisoners,  broke,  and  fled.     The  scouts 
galloped  after  them  more  slowly,  fighting  coolly  for  the 
safety  of  the  whole  party.     Young  was  his  old  self  again ; 
the  elation  was  gone  with  his  once-prisoners ;  he  was 
fighting  recklessly  to  redeem  himself  for  his  blunder. 

120 


YOUNG 

"Rowand,"  he  yelled,  "for  God's  sake  stop  the  cavalry 
and  bring  them  back." 

But  they  would  not  stop;  Rowand  rode  among  them 
and  fiercely  tried  to  turn  them — he  caught  the  sergeant's 
bridle  rein,  and  drawing  his  pistol  swore  to  kill  him  if  he 
did  not  help  to  turn  them ;  the  sergeant  was  beyond  further 
fear  and  paid  no  heed  to  him. 

There  was  a  shout  from  his  partner,  Campbell:  "Row 
and,  come  back;  Young  is  down!"  He  looked  and  then 
spurred  his  horse  to  a  run.  He  saw  Major  Young  beside 
his  dead  horse,  on  foot,  fighting  savagely;  he  saw  Camp 
bell  and  "Sonny"  Chrisman  charging  in  the  very  faces 
of  the  yelling  Confederates;  Campbell  passed  Young  and 
swung  his  horse  across  the  road  and  stood  there  behind 
it  firing  over  its  back  with  both  revolvers;  Chrisman, 
without  dismounting,  caught  Young  up  behind,  turned, 
and  rode  bounding  toward  Rowand. 

Together,  Campbell  and  Rowand  held  back  the  enemy 
until?  others  of  the  scouts  were  able  to  join  them;  step 
by  step  they  retreated  until  Young  and  Chrisman  had  a 
good  start ;  after  that  it  was  just  a  race,  and  the  Federals 
won  it!  Had  Young  in  his  gray  uniform  been  captured 
there  would  never  have  been  a  chance  for  him. 

So  close  a  call  might  have  shaken  the  nerve  of  some 
men,  but  if  Young  thought  of  it  again  at  all  he  was  not 
much  affected  by  it,  for  within  two  weeks  he  was  engaged 
on  one  of  the  most  desperate  of  all  his  missions — not  the 
taking  of  Gilmor,  but  that  which  almost  immediately 
followed. 

February  5th  he  and  his  scouts  captured  Maj.  Harry 
Gilmor  at  Moorefield,  West  Virginia.  The  story  of  that 
terrible  ride  of  sixty  miles  in  the  dead  of  winter,  over  the 

121 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

mountains  and  down  into  the  South  Branch  Valley,  and 
of  the  surprise  and  the  capture  of  Gilmor,  has  been  told 
in  the  story  of  ' '  Rowand ' ' ;  but  it  has  not  been  told  how 
Young  saved  his  prisoner  from  the  vindictive  mob  at 
Harper's  Ferry — how  he  held  them  off  with  his  revolver, 
and  whispered  to  Gilmor,  "In  case  of  attack,  take  one  of 
my  pistols  and  shoot  right  and  left :  they  will  have  to  walk 
over  my  dead  body  to  get  you!"  And  further  along  on 
their  way  to  Boston  and  the  prison  of  Fort  Warren— 
when  the  warning  came  that  the  people  of  Baltimore  were 
prepared  for  Harry  Gilmor  (he  had  at  one  time  raided  to 
within  four  miles  of  Baltimore) — Young  told  him  that  he 
should  have  arms,  and  added  laughingly,  * '  I  should  enjoy 
a  skirmish  amazingly;  I  think  you  and  I  could  whip  a 
small  crowd  by  ourselves." 

They  were  much  alike,  those  two  Harrys,  and  they  seem 
to  have  developed  a  great  admiration  for  each  other. 
Long  after  the  war  Gilmor  wrote  of  the  man  who  not 
only  captured  him,  but  who  took  him  to  the  very  doors  of 
the  prison  that  held  him  till  the  end  of  the  Rebellion : 

He  was  a  bold,  fearless  cavalry  soldier,  a  man  of  remarkable 
talents  for  the  duty  he  was  selected  to  perform,  possessing  the  quali 
ties  of  quick  discernment,  good  judgment,  and  great  self-reliance, 
rapid  execution  of  plans,  made  to  suit  circumstances  as  they  presented 
themselves.  Those  are  the  essential  qualities  of  a  good  scout.  We 
never  knew  when  or  where  to  look  for  him,  and  yet  we  knew  that  he 
or  some  of  his  best  men  were  constantly  inside  our  lines.  I  have 
known  him  to  pass  our  pickets  on  an  old  farm-horse  with  collar  and 
hames  and  a  sack  of  corn,  as  if  on  his  way  to  mill,  fool  our  pickets, 
and  go  out  again  without  being  suspected. 

But  it  is  not  alone  to  give  one  on  the  other  side  the 
chance  to  pay  tribute  that  Harry  Gilmor  has  been  men 
tioned;  it  was  because  his  capture  indirectly  brought 

122 


YOUNG 

about  the  most  audacious  of  all  Major  Young's  adven 
tures. 

When  he  stood  in  the  sleet  that  February  night,  alone 
— sixty  miles  from  the  Federal  army — as  sentry  at  the 
door  of  the  headquarters  of  General  Jubal  Early,  com 
mander  of  the  Confederate  army  in  the  Shenandoah,  he 
was  the  master  adventurer  of  the  war. 

In  retaliation  for  the  capture  of  Gilmor,  Jesse  McNeill, 
at  the  head  of  a  band  of  sixty-five  rangers,  had  captured 
Generals  Crook  and  Kelly  from  their  beds  in  hotels  in 
the  heart  of  the  large  town  of  Cumberland.  That,  like 
Gilmor 's  capture,  was  done  by  an  armed  party  of  men — 
a  performance  all  dash  and  excitement,  and  with  the 
penalty,  if  taken,  of  merely  an  enemy's  prison.  When 
Major  Young  set  out  alone  for  Staunton,  a  few  days  later, 
to  capture  General  Early  from  his  headquarters  in  the 
midst  of  his  army,  it  was  a  deed  that  was  akin  to  madness. 
By  every  rule  of  war  he  was  a  spy,  and  nothing  could  have 
saved  him.  What  a  story  could  be  told  by  the  man  who 
faced  death  each  moment  of  those  six  days  and  nights! 
It  could  be  told  by  that  man  and  by  him  alone. 

What  a  story — of  the  difficulties  met;  the  quick  turns, 
both  ways,  of  chance;  of  the  unforeseen  and  the  unex 
pected  that  leaped  out  and  menaced  him  everywhere; 
of  the  moments  of  elation  when  success  seemed  certain, 
and  the  lonely  times  when  it  was  pit-blackness  to  be  so 
very  much  alone  with  the  dangers !  There  is  little  enough 
that  he  ever  told.  He  could  have  taken  Early;  for  two 
nights  he  stood  sentry  at  his  very  door  while  the  faithless 
Confederate  guard — with  whom  he  had  changed  places — 
went  into  the  town  sweethearting !  But  with  nearly  sixty 
miles  to  travel  in  an  enemy's  country,  winter-bound,  and 

123 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

hampered  by  a  prisoner,  he  realized  that  some  time  in  the 
ensuing  pursuit  he  must  either  free  Early  or  kill  him,  and 
he  would  not  wish  to  do  either — once  he  had  him.  Young 
afterward  said  to  General  Edwards,  "Had  Early  been 
guilty  of  murdering  prisoners  or  of  sanctioning  it,  I  could 
and  would  have  taken  his  life,  but  I  did  not  consider  it 
civilized  warfare  to  kill  him  under  the  circumstances." 
Did  General  Jubal  Early  ever  learn  who  had  guarded  him 
as  he  slept  ? — and  ever  after  see  in  each  sentry  at  his  door 
a  living  sword  of  Damocles  ? 

Young  swung  from  plan  to  plan,  but  at  last  gave  back 
the  Confederate  musket,  and  returned  as  quietly  as  he 
had  come,  empty-handed  as  to  prisoners,  but  with  much 
very  valuable  information. 

The  spring  campaign  began;  the  end  of  the  war  was  al 
most  at  hand.  Sheridan  and  his  ten  thousand  cavalry 
commenced  the  Second  James  River  Canal  Raid.  The 
war  in  the  Shenandoah  was  ended.  It  was  monotonous 
work  for  the  army — the  wrecking  of  railroads  and  the 
ruining  of  canals;  the  rain  fell  constantly,  the  roads  were 
sloughs,  the  fields  bogs;  but  all  knew  now  that  the  end 
was  coming,  and  it  gave  them  heart  to  endure  anything. 
Though  there  were  no  battles  for  the  army  to  fight,  there 
was  desperate  work  for  the  men  of  the  Secret  Service. 
Not  in  many  pages  could  the  stories  be  told,  but  in  two- 
score  words  Sheridan  has  written  an  imperishable  record  : 

To  Maj.  H.  H.  Young,  of  my  staff,  chief  of  scouts,  and  the  thirty 
or  forty  men  of  his  command  who  took  their  lives  in  their  hands,  cheer 
fully  going  wherever  ordered,  to  obtain  that  great  essential  of  success, 
information,  I  tender  my  gratitude.  Ten  of  these  men  were  lost. 

March  27th  the  cavalry  joined  Grant,  and  very  soon 
there  commenced  a  whirlwind  of  fighting;  not  a  day 

124 


YOUNG 

without  its  battle,  not  an  hour  without  a  skirmish; 
night-time  and  dawn  and  noonday,  fighting,  fighting. 
There  was  one  chance  for  Lee  and  the  Army  of  Northern 
Virginia — one  chance  to  prolong  the  life  of  the  Con 
federacy;  to  join  Johnson  in  Carolina.  And  then  Sheri 
dan's  ten  thousand  troopers  at  Dinwiddie  Court  House 
suddenly  blocked  the  only  way  to  the  south;  April  ist 
at  Five  Forks  they  drove  them  back,  turned  them  west, 
ruined  them.  Petersburg  fell  on  the  2d;  the  capital, 
Richmond,  was  next  day  evacuated;  the  Confederacy 
was  down;  Lee's  army  futilely  struggled  westward — a 
fugitive  army.  All  the  time  there  was  fighting  going  on, 
every  move  meant  fighting,  there  was  always  fighting. 
It  was  no  rout;  when  the  Confederates  turned  on  their 
pursuers,  and  the  forces  were  at  all  equal,  the  Federals 
were  nearly  always  driven  back  until  reinforcements 
— always  the  inevitable  reinforcements — came  up;  then 
the  pursuit  would  begin  again. 

Neither  seemed  to  know  exhaustion.  One  was  nerved 
by  desperation;  the  other,  exultant,  buoyed  up  by 
triumph.  Troops  that  had  marched  all  day  marched 
again  nearly  all  night,  and  fought  at  dawn;  and  there 
were  days  of  that.  There  were  troops — night  marching 
they  were,  too — rushing  to  the  support  of  a  single  corps 
that  had  been  turned  on  and  was  being  crushed  by  Lee's 
army,  who  made  the  night  aglare  with  their  improvised 
torches  of  straw  and  pine  knots  and  great  fires  by  the 
roadside;  and  as  they  marched  they  sang  and  cheered 
like  mad,  and  the  marching  bands  crashed  and  blared  to 
their  singing.  God!  Was  there  ever  such  a  war  with 
such  an  ending! 

And  here,  if  never  before,  Young  and  his  men  served 

125 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

^ 

the  army.  There  were  a  dozen  roads  the  Confederates 
might  follow,  a  score  of  turns  to  take  that  might  lead  to 
no  one  knew  what  objective;  but  fast  as  the  fugitives 
moved,  there  were  on  each  road,  at  every  turn,  always 
the  gray-clad  Federal  scouts,  hidden,  watchful;  they  all 
but  lived  with  the  Confederates;  so  close  did  they  keep 
they  might  as  well  have  marched  with  them,  slept  with 
them;  for  they  returned  to  their  own  lines  only  to  report 
newly  discovered  movements.  They  had  ever  been 
brave,  these  scouts;  now  they  seemed  the  personification 
of  courage.  It  was  not  because  of  any  change  in  the 
Confederates — the  peril  was  as  great  or  greater  than 
ever:  witness — on  the  very  morning  of  the  surrender 
two  of  Young's  men  were  condemned  to  be  hanged,  and 
only  the  surrender  saved  them. 

Humorous  incidents  there  were,  too — comedy  cheek 
by  jowl  with  tragedy,  because  it  was  life,  not  a  story. 
There  was  the  capture  of  Barringer — Brigadier- General 
Rufus  Barringer  of  the  North  Carolina  Brigade — who 
was  captured  behind  his  own  lines  the  day  after  Five 
Forks.  Dignified  General  Barringer! — who  drew  him 
self  up  so  haughtily  and  replied  so  coldly  to  Confederate- 
private  Young's  cheery,  "Good  afternoon,  General," 
with  a,  "You  have  the  advantage  of  me,  sir." 

"You're  right  I  have,  General!"  laughed  the  Major, 
as  he  drew  his  revolver  and  demanded  the  astounded 
Confederate's  surrender.  The  whole  Southern  army 
was  between  Young  and  the  Union  lines,  yet  he  and  his 
men  led  General  Barringer  and  his  staff  to  a  Federal 
prison,  although  it  took  from  two  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon  until  dark  to  reach  safety.  And  the  very  next 
day  Major  Young  and  party — the  major  resplendent  in 

126 


YOUNG 

the  captured  uniform  of  a  Confederate  colonel — met  in 
the  enemy's  lines  a  colonel  from  North  Carolina  and  his 
orderly,  and,  as  was  fitting  for  two  officers  of  such  high 
rank,  he  stopped  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with  him.  The 
colonel  from  North  Carolina  told  of  General  Barringer's 
capture  by  the  Yankees — one  of  the  staff  had  escaped 
and  spread  the  tidings.  He,  the  colonel,  did  not  exactly 
bewail  the  fate  of  Barringer,  "for,"  said  he,  "I  am  to 
command;  I  take  his  place." 

"Oh  no!"  said  Harry  Young.  "You  do  not  take  his 
place;  you  go  to  the  place  where  he  is!"  And,  sure 
enough,  he  joined  his  general. 

It  is  the  last  night  of  the  war,  but  no  one  knows  it. 
The  countryside  is  full  of  aimlessly  wandering  soldiers, 
lost  from  their  regiments  by  the  rapid  manceuvers,  lost 
from  their  very  armies.  A  small  party  of  Federal  officers 
struck  the  railroad — the  great  foot-path  for  the  strayed 
Confederates — and  in  the  dusk  sat  watching  the  passing 
groups  of  stragglers — weary,  dejected  men  without  arms 
for  the  most  part,  who  had  flocked  together  for  company; 
here  and  there  were  cavalrymen,  armed  and  mounted, 
yet  they,  too,  rode  as  dejected  and  listless  as  any  part 
of  the  procession.  The  officers  drew  nearer;  the  cav 
alrymen  eyed  them  with  uneasiness,  and  finally  in 
the  growing  darkness  one  of  them  stole  up  to  the  offi 
cers. 

"Get  back  a  little — you  might  spoil  it,"  he  said. 
"We're  some  of  Major  Young's  men,  and  we're  leadin' 
these  Johnnies  down  the  road  a  piece  to  where  the  Major's 
got  a  whole  corral  of  'em."  The  staff  party,  hugely 
amused,  circled  into  the  woods  and  soon  came  upon 
Major  Young  and  some  twenty  of  his  men  with  cocked 

127 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

carbines — holding  passive  and  silent  several  hundred 
prisoners,  to  which  the  decoys  constantly  added. 

Farther  down  that  very  railroad — at  Appomattox 
Station — others  of  Young's  scouts  had  discovered  the 
Confederates'  four  lost  supply  trains.  Men  of  the  Secret 
Service  found  them — that  is  repeated,  because  it  is  usual 
only  to  remember  that  Custer  fought  for  the  trains  and 
took  them.  Sergeant  McCabe  was  in  charge  of  the  de 
tachment  that  found  them;  he  sent  Jim  White  to  report 
the  find,  and  White  has  had  the  credit !  Perhaps  White 
saw  the  supply  trains  first,  and  so  claimed  the  honor  of 
reporting  them.  But  Sergeant  McCabe  was  in  charge 
of  the  detachment,  and  this  is  written  that  he  may  read 
it,  and  in  it  see  an  attempt  to  induce  history  to  give  him 
the  place  that,  forty-seven  years,  he  has  grieved  for. 

It  has  been  said  that  Lee  surrendered  because  of  the 
capture  of  those  supply  trains — that  their  capture  fixed 
the  day  of  the  surrender.  General  Lee  did  not  know  of 
their  capture  until  after  he  had  written  and  signed  that 
last  letter.  To  General  Grant  he  then  said: 

....  "I  have,  indeed,  nothing  for  my  own  men.  ...  I  telegraphed 
to  Lynchburg,  directing  several  train-loads  of  rations  to  be  sent  on 
by  rail  from  there,  and  when  they  arrive  I  should  be  glad  to  have  the 
present  wants  of  my  men  supplied  from  them."  At  this  remark  all 
eyes  turned  toward  Sheridan,  for  he  had  captured  these  trains  with  his 
cavalry  the  night  before.  .  .  . — GENERAL  HORACE  PORTER,  in  Battles 
and  Leaders. 

Presently,  at  about  four  o'clock  of  that  April  Sunday, 
General  Lee  rode  away  from  the  McLean  House;  rode 
back  to  his  men  after  signing  the  letter  in  which  he  sur 
rendered  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia,  from  signing 
away  the  existence  of  the  Confederate  States  of  America. 

Thus  was  the  end  of  the  Civil  War;  and  as  an  end  to 

128 


YOUNG 

Major  Henry  Harrison  Young's  Civil  War  service  there 
stands  this  record — no,  not  as  an  end,  but  framing  it, 
just  as  a  simple  frame  of  dull  gold  completes  and  focuses 
a  picture,  so  with  these  words  of  Sheridan's: 

CAVALRY  HEADQUARTERS, 
PETERSBURG,  VIRGINIA,  April  ip,  1865. 
To  HONORABLE  E.  M.  STANTON, 

Secretary  of  War,  Washington,  D.  C. 

SIR, —  ...  I  desire  to  make  special  mention  of  the  valuable  services 
of  Major  H.  H.  Young,  Second  Rhode  Island  Infantry,  chief  of  my 
scouts  during  the  cavalry  expedition  from  Winchester,  Virginia,  to  the 
James  River.  His  personal  gallantry  and  numerous  conflicts  with  the 
enemy  won  the  admiration  of  the  whole  command.  In  the  late  cam 
paign  from  Petersburg  to  Appomattox  Court  House  he  kept  me  con 
stantly  informed  of  the  movements  of  the  enemy  and  brought  in 
prisoners,  from  brigadier-generals  down.  The  information  obtained 
through  him  was  invaluable.  I  earnestly  request  that  he  be  made  a 
lieutenant-colonel  by  brevet.  .  .  . 
Very  respectfully, 

Your  obedient  servant, 

(Signed)         P.  H.  SHERIDAN, 

Major-General,  Commanding. 

What  remains  to  be  told  is  all  too  brief.  He  did  not 
go  back  to  Providence  with  the  men  of  the  Second  Rhode 
Island;  there  came  the  chance  to  prolong  for  a  few  months 
the  life  of  adventure,  and  he  hailed  it  gladly. 

With  the  end  of  the  Civil  War,  the  administration 
turned  its  attention  to  the  French  in  Mexico.  The 
Liberals,  defeated  at  nearly  every  point,  impoverished, 
split  into  factions,  were  in  a  desperate  plight;  Maximilian 
and  the  Imperialists  were  everywhere  in  the  ascendant. 

Sheridan  at  the  head  of  an  army  of  observation  was  sent 
to  Brownsville  at  the  mouth  of  the  Rio  Grande ;  and  Colo 
nel  Young,  taking  four  of  his  most  trusty  men,  went  with 
him. 

129 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

In  Brownsville,  Sheridan  met  Caravajal,  wily  and  sub 
tle  and  old,  then  leader  of  the  Liberals;  and  to  him  he 
recommended  Young  /'as  a  confidential  man,  whom  he 
could  rely  upon  as  a  'go-between'  for  communicating 
with  our  people  at  Brownsville,  and  whom  he  could  trust 
to  keep  him  informed  of  the  affairs  in  his  own  country 
as  well."  Caravajal  saw  Young,  and,  first  assuring  him 
that  his  plan  had  the  concurrence  of  General  Sheridan, 
proposed  a  scheme  which,  God  knows  why,  won  him; 
it  was  that  Young  should  raise,  equip,  and  command  a 
band  of  picked  men  to  act  as  body-guard  for  Caravajal. 
Perhaps  the  plan  awoke  in  him  the  sleeping  spirit  of  a 
soldier  of  fortune ;  perhaps  it  was  a  nobler,  more  Quixotic 
desire  to  aid  the  struggling  Mexican  patriots.  But  he 
took  the  seven  thousand  dollars  furnished  him  and 
hurried  to  New  Orleans,  where  he  quickly  raised  and 
equipped  his  company. 

Then  Sheridan,  who  for  a  fortnight  had  been  in  the 
interior  of  Texas,  came  back  to  New  Orleans.  Of  their 
interview  Sheridan  writes  in  his  Memoirs: 


I  at  once  condemned  the  whole  business,  but  .  .  .  [he]  was  so  deeply 
involved  in  the  transaction,  he  said,  that  he  could  not  withdraw  with 
out  dishonor,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes  he  besought  me  to  help  him. 
He  told  me  he  had  entered  upon  the  adventure  in  the  firm  belief  that 
I  would  countenance  it;  that  the  men  and  their  equipment  were  on  his 
hands;  that  he  must  make  good  his  word  at  all  hazards;  and  that  while 
I  need  not  approve,  yet  I  must  go  far  enough  to  consent  to  the  depar 
ture  of  the  men,  and  to  loan  him  the  money  necessary  to  provision  his 
party  and  hire  a  schooner  to  carry  them  to  Brazos.  It  was  hard, 
indeed,  to  resist  the  appeals  of  this  man,  who  had  served  me  so  long  and 
so  well;  and  the  result  of  his  pleading  was  that  I  gave  him  permission 
to  sail,  and  also  loaned  him  the  sum  asked  for;  but  I  have  never  ceased 
to  regret  my  consent,  for  misfortune  fell  upon  the  enterprise  almost 
from  its  inception. 

130 


YOUNG 

At  Brownsville,  over  across  the  Gulf,  Young  and  his 
men,  about  fifty  in  number,  were  met  by  the  first  hot 
breath  of  disaster.  Caravajal  had  been  deposed,  and  his 
successor,  Canales,  refused  to  accept  their  services. 
After  that  all  is  confusion  to  the  very  end.  Young  was 
without  money  to  take  his  men  back  to  New  Orleans, 
without  money  to  buy  even  food  for  them.  He  and  his 
men  pushed  on  desperately  to  reach  the  camp  of  General 
Escobedo,  leader  of  another  faction;  they  kept  on  the 
American  side  of  the  Rio  Grande,  proposing  to  cross  into 
Mexico  near  Ringgold  Barracks. 

Far  in  advance  there  had  been  spread  their  story — 
who  they  were  and  what  they  did  there,  and  where  and 
why  they  were  coming.  They  stood  absolutely  alone; 
the  law  of  neutrality  cut  them  off  from  all  succor  from  their 
countrymen  as  completely  as  though  they  were  outcasts; 
for  the  time  they  were  men  who  had  no  country. 

Renegade  Mexican  rancheros,  ex-Confederates,  mer 
cenaries,  bandits — all  swarmed  down  to  the  river  to  head 
off  the  desperate  little  band.  From  the  ensuing  battle 
there  came  back — rumor,  only  rumor.  Whether  they  were 
at  last  attacked  and  turned  on  their  pursuers,  whether 
in  despair  they  tried  to  cross  to  cut  their  way  through- 
it  is  told  one  way,  it  is  told  the  other. 

The  little  girl  who  drove  that  day  in  the  Blackstone 
Valley  has  written  of  the  years  that  she  and  the  mother 
waited  for  tidings.  They  had  seen  the  report  first  in  a 
newspaper — had  read  it  together;  neither  would  believe 
it,  and  for  years  each  buoyed  up  the  other. 

It  was  a  sad  time  indeed  when  his  letters  ceased  coming,  and  when 
all  efforts  to  find  him  proved  unavailing.  .  .  .  Although  I  know  that  no 
tidings  of  him  have  cheered  us  in  thirteen  years,  still  I  cannot  con- 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

scientiously  say  that  I  believe  him  dead.  I  have  no  foundation  on 
which  to  build  hope,  indeed,  unless  it  be  the  private  conviction  of 
General  Sheridan. 

Sheridan,  indeed,  seems  to  have  been  as  stubborn  as 
they  in  his  belief  that  Young  had  in  some  way  crossed 
the  river.  He  had  immediately  contradicted  the  first 
report  that  he  had  been  killed :  Young  had  been  seen  in 
Monterey.  To  General  Edwards  he  wrote,  "I  cannot 
bear  to  think  of  him  as  dead,  and  yet  hope  to  see  him." 

And  even  after  more  than  two  years,  in  a  letter  to  the 
mother,  he  said :  * '  Still ...  I  am  inclined  to  the  belief  that 
he  is  living.  I  merely  state  that  as  my  conviction." 
But  as  the  years  passed  and  brought  no  definite  tidings 
he  gave  up,  and  in  his  Memoirs,  written  some  twenty 
years  later,  he  sets  down  the  sif tings  of  rumor: 

They  were  attacked  .  .  .  Being  on  American  soil,Young  forbade  his 
men  to  return  the  fire  and  bent  all  his  efforts  to  getting  them  over  the 
river;  but  in  this  attempt  they  were  broken  up  and  became  completely 
demoralized.  A  number  of  the  men  were  drowned  while  swimming 
the  river.  Young  himself  was  shot  and  killed,  a  few  were  captured, 
and  those  who  escaped — about  twenty  in  all — finally  joined  Escobedo. 

But  there  are  other  versions  equally  positive  as  Sheri 
dan's — only  different.  And  thus  it  must  remain,  per 
haps  till  the  end  of  time — like  an  unfinished  picture, 
abandoned,  forgotten  by  the  artist.  There  is  the  hot, 
glaring  sand,  and  the  hot,  empty  sky;  between,  the  cruel 
and  sparkling  river;  but  of  the  figures  that  were  to  have 
peopled  the  painting  and  given  it  life  and  told  its  story, 
there  is  but  a  blur  of  meaningless  paint  and  raw,  un 
covered  canvas. 


BOWIE 

A  MAN  lay  prone  in  the  dust  of  a  sunlit  road — dying. 
Above  the  red  sumac  bushes  at  the  roadside  there  yet 
lingered  the  telltale  smoke  fast  melting  into  the  grayer 
blue  of  the  autumn  haze.  The  narrow  road  curved 
and  curved  again ;  it  was  between  the  two  curves  that  the 
man  lay— dying.  A  scant  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  around 
the  first  bend,  a  small  party  of  men  in  gray — his  men — 
were  shouting  and  laughing,  calling  from  one  to  another 
humorous  details  of  the  fight.  For  they  had  just  repulsed 
an  attack  of  four  to  one,  and  the  enemy  had  fled,  terror- 
struck — made  ridiculous — at  the  first  volley,  leaving  be 
hind  their  horses,  their  arms,  and  their  honor.  As  the 
men  saddled  their  horses  and  led  them  down  the  steep 
knollside — down  which  they  had  so  lately  charged— 
they  laughed  and  shouted  boisterously;  perhaps  he  heard 
them,  for  he  was  sitting  now,  beyond  the  bend — still 
in  the  middle  of  the  road — with  his  torn  face  in  his  hands. 

Beyond  the  man  in  the  road,  beyond  the  second  bend, 
there  ran  two  men,  gray-clad;  they  were  running  forward, 
one  at  each  side  of  the  road,  long-barreled  revolvers  in 
each  hand  swinging  here  and  there  toward  every  stirring 
leaf,  every  rustling  bough.  As  they  ran  they  stooped 
and  peered  through  each  opening  in  the  tangled  under 
growth,  down  every  woodland  aisle;  in  their  red,  sweat- 
bathed  faces  there  was  savage  anger,  and  in  their  eyes 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

dull  grief  and  pain.  The  man  who  was  a  little  ahead  at 
last  stopped  and  faced  about.  "We  might  as  well  go 
back,"  he  said. 

They  bolstered  their  revolvers,  and,  stride  for  stride, 
retraced  their  steps  in  silence.  As  they  reached  the  bend, 
they  sprang  forward  with  glad,  excited  cries.  He  whom 
they  had  believed  dead  was  sitting  in  the  road  with  his 
face  in  his  hands.  They  ran  to  him  and  knelt  at  his  side, 
supporting  him  in  their  arms  and  asking  if  he  were  much 
hurt. 

"I've  got  to  die,"  he  said,  simply.  "I  know.  Get  the 
boys  together  and  get  out;  the  whole  country  will  be  up; 
they  will  double  the  patrols  at  the  fords.  Leave  me  and 
get  out."  They  waited  a  moment  for  him  to  speak  again, 
but  they  had  heard  the  last  that  he  was  to  say  to  them— 
the  order  that  was  for  their  safety;  with  the  effort,  he 
had  slipped  lower  in  their  arms  and  lay  quite  still.  The 
elder  of  the  two  motioned  with  a  backward  nod  of  his 
head. 

"Go  tell  the  others,  Charlie";  and  the  boy  stood  up, 
and  then  ran  heavily  down  the  road.  To  the  man  who 
was  left  there  came  clearly  the  jangle  of  the  accoutre 
ments  of  men  swinging  into  their  saddles,  the  hoof-falls 
of  restive  horses,  the  hilarious  shouts  of  the  raiders,  and 
then  a  sudden  silence  that  made  the  tiny  noises  of  the 
woods  and  fields  seem  loud.  The  elder  man,  who  knelt 
in  the  road,  listened  grimly.  "He's  told  them,"  he 
said. 

Down  in  Montgomery  County,  near  a  village  called 
Sandy  Spring,  in  the  State  of  Maryland,  there  should  be 
3  stone  set  at  the  side  of  a  narrow  road  to  mark  the  spot 

134 


BOWIE 

where  Wat  Bowie  fell.  Whether  there  be  a  stone  or  no, 
his  memory  will  not  soon  be  forgot  by  the  South,  whose 
son  he  was  and  who  loved  him ;  or  by  the  North,  on  whom 
he  turned  his  back,  and  who  hated  and  feared  him  for  the 
harm  he  did,  yet  could  not  but  admire  his  sheer  bravery, 
and  the  reckless  daring  that  was  an  insolence  to  his  foes. 

He  was  thirty,  and  a  lawyer  in  a  dusty  little  red-brick 
office  next  the  county  court-house  of  Upper  Marlboro, 
Prince  George  County,  Maryland ;  and  then  the  great  war 
broke  out,  and  Bowie  went  with  the  South. 

He  was  thirty,  and  a  lawyer;  student  days  were  over — 
the  serious  business  of  life  had  begun.  From  the  age- 
yellowed  photograph  of  that  time  there  looks  out  a  student, 
a  mild  man,  grave  and  sober — handsome  in  a  refined, 
quiet  way;  with  high,  broad  forehead,  higher  and  broader 
by  the  frame  of  thick,  smooth-parted  brown  hair;  small, 
straight  nose  between  two  deep-set,  gray-blue  eyes,  mild 
and  thoughtful;  the  whole  expression  made  melancholy 
by  the  droop  of  the  long,  limp,  fair  mustache. 

And  then  the  great  war  broke  out,  and  Bowie  went 
with  the  South.  It  was  the  spirit  of  the  school-boy  who 
had  settled  down  to  the  endlessness  of  a  long  term,  and 
who  suddenly  is  reprieved  by  the  closing  of  the  school- 
back  into  playtime,  into  the  world  of  out-of-doors.  This 
is  the  Wat  Bowie  that  his  old  comrades  tell  of  with  a 
brightening  of  their  eyes  and  a  softening  of  their  voices. 

"It  wasn't  just  that  he  didn't  know  what  it  was  to  be 
afraid  and  that  he  loved  to  fight — there  were  some  of  the 
rest  of  us  who  were  that  way,  too,  those  days — but  he 
got  such  fun  out  of  it.  Would  go  out  of  his  way  for  miles 
to  get  into  trouble,  and  always  come  back  laughing  about 
it,  an'  joke  over  the  way  he  had  fooled  'em  again. 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

"He  was  a  handsome  fellow,  but  it  was  always  the 
laugh  in  his  eyes  that  folks  remembered  first  of  all.  Tall 
he  was,  and  thin,  and  there  was  a  bit  of  a  stoop  to  his 
shoulders,  like  he'd  had  too  much  of  the  law-books. 
Lord,  how  the  people  loved  him! — the  Southern  people 
of  Maryland,  that  is.  He  knew  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  in  Prince  George  County,  and  they  all  called  him 
Wat.  And  the  girls—" 

There  was  one  Maryland  girl —  Perhaps  that  is  why, 
when  he  closed  the  little  law-office  in  Upper  Marlboro, 
he  did  not  go  over  into  Virginia  and  enlist,  preferring  to 
stay  in  Prince  George  County  and  serve  the  South  in 
the  most  hazardous  capacity  as  spy.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
his  love  for  greater  danger,  or  dislike  for  discipline  and 
routine;  but  certainly  the  girl  was  there,  and  certainly 
there  were  the  dangers.  And  work !  There  was  work  to 
be  done  in  Prince  George — with  Washington  itself  cut 
ting  deep  into  the  northwest  corner  of  the  county,  and 
Annapolis,  the  State  capital,  over  next  door  in  Anne 
Arundel;  and  the  movement  of  Federal  troops  to  watch, 
and  the  forwarding  of  three-fourths  of  all  the  mail  for 
Richmond  from  sympathizers  in  the  North — it  was 
taken  over  the  Potomac,  where  the  Secret  Service  men 
and  the  patrols  had  to  be  outwitted  in  a  new  way  every 
night. 

Down  in  Prince  George  County  there  are  scores  of 
houses  to-day  where  they  will  tell  you  something  of  Wat 
Bowie,  but  of  those  first  months  of  the  war  there  will  be 
little  that  they  can  tell.  He  was  here,  there,  back  again, 
then  gone  for  days  and  weeks  at  a  time;  long,  lonely 
night  rides,  nights  along  the  river,  days  of  hiding,  days  of 
planning — of  spying;  trips  into  Washington  itself — in  the 

136 


BOWIE 

early  days  of  the  war  before  he  was  a  marked  man;  to 
Richmond,  perhaps,  with  tidings ;  or  with  reports  to  army 
headquarters  over  in  Virginia,  then  back  across  the  storm- 
swept  Potomac  ere  the  dawn.  It  was  hard,  desperate, 
quick- wit  work ;  and  as  the  months  passed  it  grew  harder, 
more  dangerous  still.  He  was  doing  great  work  for  the 
South — it  was  too  good  to  escape  attention;  the  War 
Department  in  Washington  grew  irritated,  and  said  that 
Maryland  might  as  well  have  joined  the  South.  Secret 
Service  men  overran  Prince  George,  and  soon  the  report 
went  back  that  of  all  disloyal  Marylanders  one  Wat 
Bowie  was  the  man. 

At  last,  one  autumn  night,  after  months  of  search, 
they  caught  him — at  the  home  of  the  girl.  The  house 
was  surrounded,  then  they  burst  in.  Wat  Bowie  dashed 
through  the  second-story  window  and  fell,  literally, 
into  the  arms  of  the  men  outside. 

They  took  him  to  Washington  to  the  Old  Capitol 
Prison,  and  there  they  sentenced  him  to  be  hanged. 
Even  President  Lincoln,  the  "Merciful  Man,"  approved 
the  sentence,  they  say.  His  people  did  everything  to 
have  him  freed;  they  planned  and  plotted,  bribed  and 
bought.  At  last  the  plans  were  complete;  but  they  could 
not  get  word  to  him,  until  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Tyler,  pleaded 
so  hard  to  be  allowed  to  bid  her  boy  good-by  that  they 
let  her  in,  a  day  or  two  before  Friday — it  was  to  be  on 
Friday,  the  hanging.  And,  though  they  searched  her  and 
watched  her  vigilantly,  yet  as  she  kissed  him  good-by 
for  the  last  time  she  slipped  a  tiny  note  from  her  lips 
into  his.  When  she  had  gone  he  read  that  that  very 
night  a  negro  servant  would  be  sent  to  him  with  food, 
and  that  the  door  of  his  cell  would  not  be  locked  again 

i37 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

after  the  food  had  been  handed  in;  and  at  exactly  seven 
o'clock  the  light  in  his  corridor  would  be  put  out;  and  that 
there  would  be  a  ladder  to  the  skylight  of  the  roof. 

It  was  all  made  as  simple  as  a  child's  game,  and  as 
simply  carried  out.  By  a  few  minutes  past  seven  he  was 
lying  on  the  roof  of  a  wood-shed,  resting  in  the  rain  and 
waiting  for  the  passing  of  the  sentry  along  his  beat  beyond 
the  wall.  When  he  heard  the  measured  pacing  grow 
fainter,  he  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  wall  and  dropped 
down.  But  the  dark  and  the  slime  of  the  roadway  made 
him  land  wrong,  and  he  fell  heavily,  wrenching  his  ankle. 
He  lay  breathless  for  a  minute,  expecting  the  guard  to 
rush  back  and  seize  him,  or  the  alarm  to  be  raised  in  the 
prison.  The  guard  had  stopped,  and  was  listening  too, 
pausing  in  doubt;  with  hesitation,  he  began  to  walk  back. 
And  then  Bowie,  the  aggrieved  citizen,  commenced  to 
swear  loudly;  he  cursed  the  city  and  the  city  fathers, 
the  wretched  sidewalks,  and  the  lampless  street,  the  dark 
ness  of  the  night,  and  the  rain;  and  then  he  yelled  lustily 
for  help.  The  guard  hurried  now. 

"Help  me  up,  my  good  fellow,"  Bowie  cried.  The 
guard  was  a  stupid  oaf,  and  asked  him,  with  lulled  sus 
picion,  what  he  did  in  that  place. 

It  was  dark,  and  he  had  blundered  over  to  the  wrong 
side  of  the  road — any  fool  should  know  that;  if  ever  he 
got  safe  home  he  would  never  come  that  way  again. 
Perhaps  if  he  were  helped  a  bit  to  the  end  of  the  sentry's 
beat —  And  so,  half  cajoling,  half  commanding  in  his 
insolent  fashion,  wholly  making  a  fool  of  him,  Bowie  be 
guiled  the  sentry  into  aiding  him  on  his  way,  and  morn 
ing  saw  him  back  in  Prince  George  with  a  tale  to  tell  over 
which  they  chuckle  to  this  day — down  in  Prince  George. 

138 


BOWIE 

So  they  tell  the  story,  Bowie's  old  comrades  in  arms, 
"just  as  Wat  told  it  to  us." 

The  Official  Records  of  the  War  Department  have 
their  own  way  of  telling  such  tales:  "Walter  Bowie, 
Maryland,  confined  Old  Capitol  Prison,  Oct.  14,  1862, 
by  order  Secretary  of  War.  Charge:  'Disloyal  Prac 
tices.'  Escaped  at  7.00  P.M.,  November  17,  1862."  But 
perhaps  the  sentry  never  told! 

For  weeks  they  kept  hot  on  his  trail — little  details  of 
cavalry  and  many  Secret  Service  men.  He  blundered 
into  a  small  camp  of  them  one  morning  at  dawn,  and  saw 
instantly  that  retreat  was  impossible;  with  a  dozen 
revolvers  they  were  ready  to  open  fire.  Without  hesita 
tion,  he  strode  up  to  the  men  and  shouted,  indig 
nantly: 

"You  make  mighty  free  with  my  rails!  With  all  this 
wood  around,  you  did  not  need  to  burn  my  fences." 
He  was  very  angry. 

"Who  are  you?"  a  corporal  stammered. 

"The  owner  of  the  rails,  of  course."  And  then,  be 
coming  somewhat  mollified,  he  went  on:  "Well,  well. 
War  is  war;  but  don't  do  .any  more  damage  than  you  can 
help,  boys."  He  sat  down  with  them  to  their  breakfast 
and  chatted  with  them  pleasantly.  One  of  them  asked 
if  he  had  seen  Wat  Bowie,  and  described  him  accurately. 
At  the  description,  they  all  stared  at  him  and  moved  un 
easily,  in  doubt  as  to  what  was  to  be  done;  he  tallied 
with  the  description  in  every  respect.  But  his  insolence 
in  walking  up  to  them  and  cursing  them  for  burning 
"his"  rails  made  them  doubt  their  own  eyes. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  drawled,  "Wat  Bowie  was  in  these 
parts  last  week — I  know  him  well.  They  say  he  has 

i39 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

gone  to  the  north  part  of  the  county,  where  he  hails  from. 
I  don't  know,  though,  as  to  that." 

Then,  rising  and  stretching  himself,  he  looked  down 
into  their  doubt -rilled  eyes  and  laughed  at  them  — 
laughed  in  their  very  faces. 

"I'm  glad  you-all  met  me  on  m'  own  land — you  might 
have  made  trouble  for  me  elsewhere,  for  they  all  say  I 
look  like  him  a  lot.  Good-by,  boys.  Good  luck!" 

He  turned  back  a  moment  as  he  strode  away.  "If 
you  would  like  a  drink,  any  of  y',  come  to  the  house  about 
dusk,  when  I  shall  be  home." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  they  chorused. 

Spring  came,  and  passed,  and  summer  began — the  sum 
mer  of  '63.  Secret  Service  men  dogged  his  heels,  always 
but  one  jump  behind.  Across  the  face  of  the  orders  for 
his  arrest  is  invariably  written,  "Not  to  be  found." 
Colonel  Lafayette  Baker,  then  Provost  Marshal  of  the 
War  Department,  reports  to  Secretary  of  War  Stanton, 
July  9,  1863,  that  the  "notorious  rebel  and  spy,  Walter 
Bowie,  succeeded  in  evading  the  search  for  him";  he 
does  not  say  how. 

But  Wat  Bowie  told,  laughing;  and  the  story  is  a 
favorite  in  Prince  George  to-day.  The  house  was  sur 
rounded,  and  they  would  not  give  him  even  the  chance  of 
darkness,  in  case  he  should  break  through  the  line;  they 
waited  for  dawn.  When  the  gray  light  came  they  closed 
in  on  the  house ;  the  door  opened,  and  two  negro  women, 
their  teeth  chattering  from  fear  of  the  Yankees,  came 
shambling  out  with  pails  to  go  to  the  spring  for  water. 

"You're  a  mighty  tall  nigger,"  a  soldier  called,  as  they 
passed  him  in  the  shrubbery;  the  girl  dropped  her  bucket 
and  rolled  her  eyes  in  fear,  and  the  man  laughed  and  let 

140 


BOWIE 

them  by.  The  fat  old  negress  came  back,  and  they  asked 
her  where  the  wench  was. 

"Yo'-all  scairt  her  so,  she  done  run  away,"  she  said. 
Suspicion  flamed  in  their  eyes ;  several  rushed  to  the  spring 
—she  was  gone.  They  charged  into  the  house;  his  coat 
and  hat  were  there,  and  the  corks  with  which  he  had 
blacked  his  face,  but  the  mighty  tall  nigger  they  never 
saw  again. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  girl's  doing;  she  may  have  begged 
him  to  leave  the  State,  where  each  month  saw  him  more 
hard  pressed  by  the  Secret  Service  men,  where  vindictive 
Unionists  reported  his  movements  day  after  day ;  the  State 
where  the  shadow  of  the  noose  fell  upon  him  at  every 
turn.  Perhaps  it  was  only  his  restless  nature  that  de 
manded  change,  that  sought  the  other  side  of  war.  Or 
it  may  be  that  the  wild  deeds  in  "  Mosby's  Confederacy," 
where  warfare  was  waged  in  the  methods  he  had  so  long 
used  single-handed,  drew  him  irresistibly  over  the  Potomac. 

And  so,  in  the  early  spring  of  '64,  Wat  Bowie  joined 
the  Forty-third  Battalion  of  Virginia  Cavalry,  Mosby's 
Rangers — the  Partisan  Battalion  they  called  themselves; 
to  the  North  they  were  "Mosby's  Guerrillas,"  hated  and 
feared. 

Colonel  Mosby — now  a  hale,  vigorous  old  man  of 
seventy-nine — tells  of  him:  "Wat  Bowie,  of  Maryland? 
To  be  sure  I  remember  him.  He  was  a  brave  fighter." 
Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  that  day  at  Mount  Zion 
Church  when  they  captured  the  raider  Major  Forbes; 
that  day  when  he  and  Bowie  and  a  handful  of  the  Rangers 
fought  side  by  side  and  hand  to  hand  against  a  band  of 
desperate  Federals,  hemmed  in  and  at  bay.  Or  of  the 
night  at  Belle  Plain  when  he  and  Bowie,  scouting  to- 

141 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

gether,  rode  for  their  lives  before  trie  hotly  pursuing 
Union  cavalry.  It  was  that  same  night,  later,  that  they 
and  a  squad  of  Rangers  captured  the  train  of  fifty  wagons 
between  Fredericksburg  and  Belle  Plain.  These  and  a 
score  more  adventures  must  Colonel  Mosby  recall  at  the 
memory  of  Bowie  of  Maryland. 

It  was  by  such  deeds  as  these  that  he  fought  his  way 
to  the  first  lieutenancy  of  Company  F  before  that  same 
summer  was  gone.  He  had  scarce  won  to  his  command 
when  he  went  to  Mosby  with  a  plan  that  made  even 
Mosby  pause.  But  he  talked  and  argued  and  pleaded 
eloquently,  enthusiastically,  giving  detail  after  detail, 
point  by  point,  of  his  great  plan — shrewdly  conceived, 
keenly  thought  out,  and  backed  by  a  courage  known  to 
all. 

"He  was  always  after  me  those  days,"  Colonel  Mosby 
tells,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "to  let  him  go  over  and 
'stir  things  up  in  Maryland.'  So  this  time  I  let  him  have 
twenty-five  men,  and  told  him  to  go  ahead  and  make  the 
try."  Then,  gravely,  "He  was  a  gallant  young  man." 

He  picked  his  men,  the  largest  force  that  had  as  yet 
been  intrusted  to  his  individual  command.  Through 
Fairfax  they  rode,  through  Prince  William  and  Stafford, 
to  King  George  Court  House  in  King  George  County, 
and  there  they  turned  toward  the  Potomac;  and  at  the 
house  of  Mr.  Tennant  he  quartered  his  men,  while  he  and 
Jack  Randolph  and  Jim  Wiltshire  went  scouting  over  the 
river.  They  had  a  wild  crossing  of  the  Potomac — four 
miles  wide  there  at  Matthias  Point — but  they  made  the 
passage  safely  in  the  yawl  of  Long,  the  blockade-runner. 
The  men  lolled  about  on  Virginia's  shores,  waiting. 

Through  the  mist  over  the  bottom-lands  around  Ten- 

142 


BOWIE 

nant's  house  could  be  seen  the  Potomac,  green  and  sullen 
— white-capped;  sometimes,  even  beyond,  to  the  long  low 
shores  of  Maryland.  About  eleven  of  the  third  night 
young  Wiltshire  came  back. 

"Charlie  Vest,  O'Bannon,  George  Smith,  and  George 
Radcliffe  and  Haney  are  wanted — dismounted.  The 
rest  are  to  report  back  to  Colonel  Mosby  in  Fauquier," 
he  said.  It  had  been  found  too  hazardous  to  operate 
with  so  large  a  force  as  twenty-five,  and  none  of  the 
horses  could  be  ferried  across. 

On  the  way  to  the  river  Wiltshire  told  them  how  Long 
had  tried  to  turn  back  when  part  way  across  with  him, 
because  of  his  fear  of  the  many  passing  boats,  and  how  he 
had  had  to  urge  him  on,  at  the  point  of  his  pistol,  and 
swear  that  if  Long  did  not  wait  for  them  that  he  would 
hunt  him  down  and  kill  him,  wherever  found.  But  the 
blockade-runner  was  waiting,  and  sullenly  ferried  them 
across  to  "the  Walnut,"  where  Bowie  and  Randolph 
joined  them;  and  they  all  trudged  across  the  fields  to  a 
sheltering  wood  a  mile  away.  There  they  slept.  Bowie  was 
gone  again,  soon  after  sunrise,  on  one  of  his  lone  scouts, 
and  they  waited  in  the  woods  all  that  day  for  his  return. 
They  dozed  and  woke,  and  dozed  again,  till  the  watery 
sun  broke  through  the  thin  clouds  and  warmed  away  the 
chill;  and  they  grew  gay  again  and  jested  what  they 
would  say  to  his  excellency  Bradford,  the  governor  of 
Maryland,  when,  a  prisoner,  he  should  ride  back  with 
them  to  Virginia  and  the  Confederacy. 

This  army  of  eight,  without  mounts,  clad  in  rebel-gray, 
armed  only  with  revolvers,  cut  off  from  supplies  and  the 
succor  of  their  friends,  meant  to  penetrate  to  the  heart  of 
a  hostile  state  and  snatch  its  chief  executive  from  Annap- 

143 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

olis,  or,  failing  that,  to  rob  the  State  bank  and  dash  with 
the  spoils  or  the  captive  to  the  fords  of  the  upper  Poto 
mac. 

It  was  not  such  a  hopeless  plan — to  them.  They  were 
boys,  all,  from  the  stripling  Charlie  Vest,  aged  seventeen, 
to  Bowie,  thirty-one.  Boys,  sanguine,  gay,  whom  three 
years  of  a  bloody  war  had  not  made  grim  nor  old. 

Men  they  were,  too,  in  trained  skill,  in  resource,  in 
aggression,  and  in  the  experience  of  successful  raid  after 
raid  in  one  of  the  most  daring  cavalry  commands  the  world 
has  ever  seen,  a  command  led  and  inspired  by  that  genius 
of  partisan  warfare,  Mosby.  And  at  their  head  now  was 
Mosby's  lieutenant,  Bowie. 

They  cheered  him  when  he  returned  at  twilight  to  tell 
them  that  he  had  horses  for  them — good  horses,  United 
States  government  horses — "if  they  could  lick  long 
odds."  It  was  twelve  or  fifteen  miles  to  the  horses, 
which  belonged  to  a  provost  guard  of  a  cavalry  camp  at 
Port  Tobacco,  and  they  walked  all  the  way. 

As  described  by  a  newspaper  writer,1  this  is  the  Port 
Tobacco  of  those  days,  the  home  of  Atzeroth,  hanged 
accomplice  of  John  Wilkes  Booth: 

If  any  place  in  the  world  is  utterly  given  over  to  depravity,  it  is 
Port  Tobacco  ...  a  rebel  port  for  blockade-runners,  and  a  rebel  post- 
office  general.  Gambling,  corner-fighting,  shooting-matches. .  . .  The 
hotel  here  is  called  Brawner  House;  it  has  a  bar  in  the  nethermost 
cellar,  and  its  patrons,  carousing  in  that  imperfect  light,  look  like  the 
denizens  of  some  burglar's  crib  talking  robbery  between  their  cups. 
The  court-house  is  the  most  superfluous  house  in  the  place — except 
the  church.  It  stands  in  the  center  of  the  town,  in  a  square,  and  the 
dwellings  lie  about  it  closely,  as  if  to  throttle  justice.  Five  hundred 

1  Quoted  in  the  History  of  the  United  States  Secret  Service,  by  General  L. 
C.  Baker. 

144 


BOWIE 

people  exist  in  Port  Tobacco:  life  there  reminds  me,  in  connection 
with  the  slimy  river  and  the  adjacent  swamps,  of  the  great  reptile 
period  of  the  world. 

Such  was  Port  Tobacco ;  Bowie  knew  it  well.  It  was 
in  a  little  room  behind  the  bar  in  the  nethermost  cellar 
of  Brawner  House  that  they  waited,  smoking,  drinking, 
telling  stories,  unconcerned  for  the  coming  hour,  waiting 
till  the  town  should  grow  silent  in  sleep.  It  was  in  the 
superfluous  court-house  that  the  provost  guard  was 
stationed;  the  cavalry  camp  was  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town.  They  strolled  over  to  the  court-house,  and  in  the 
dark  Bowie  and  Wiltshire  throttled  the  single  guard; 
then  they  all  tiptoed  into  the  wide,  empty  hall.  In  the 
doorway  Vest  was  stationed. 

"Shoot  the  first  man  out,  Charlie,"  Bowie  said. 

There  could  be  no  retreat  by  Confederates,  no  escape 
for  Federals — Charlie  Vest  was  a  certainty  when  it  came 
to  shooting  the  first  man.  Just  inside  the  hall  there  were 
two  doors,  one  on  either  side — both  rooms  might  be  filled. 
Wat  Bowie  and  Wiltshire,  lighting  a  match,  flung  open  the 
door  on  the  right-hand  side  and  went  in ;  the  floor  was  filled 
with  men — twenty  of  them. 

"If  any  one  fires  a  shot,  we'll  murder  you  all,"  Bowie 
yelled.  The  rest  of  his  men  rushed  in ;  the  match  went  out, 
and  in  the  dark  and  confusion  it  seemed  that  the  entire 
Confederate  army  was  charging  into  the  room.  Outside, 
Charlie  Vest  was  waiting  to  shoot  the  first  man.  But 
none  came ;  the  Federals  were  each  giving  a  parole  not  -to 
leave  the  room  or  give  information  till  morning,  "when  we 
will  be  safe  across  the  river,"  Bowie  shrewdly  said.  The 
Union  men  kept  their  parole,  though  they  had  to  listen  to 
the  raiders  riding  off  on  their  horses. 
10  145 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

And  so  they  galloped  gleefully  away  from  Port  Tobacco, 
Bowie  riding  a  big  raw-boned  gray,  his  choice,  though  not 
the  best;  a  fitting  horse  for  a  leader  who  always  led,  a 
horse  to  guide  by,  night  and  day,  in  battle  or  in  retreat. 
Thirty-six  miles  they  rode,  and  Bowie  was  in  Upper 
Marlboro  again.  He  must  have  pointed  out  to  them  the 
little  red-brick  office  as  they  passed;  must  have  drawn 
deep  free  breaths  as  they  galloped  by.  They  were  hun 
gry,  and  there  was  no  food ;  the  people  dared  not  feed  them. 
The  shadow  of  the  Old  Capitol  Prison  stretched  out  from 
a  dozen  miles  away,  and  lay  like  a  blight  upon  the  faint 
hearts  of  the  Southern  sympathizers. 

They  took  a  side  road  and  came  to  a  cabin,  where 
Bowie  ordered  them  to  dismount.  An  old  negress  came 
to  the  door.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice  she  rushed  to 
him  as  though  to  throw  her  arms  about  him,  laughing  and 
weeping,  her  old  voice  quivering  with  joy  and  surprise. 

' ' Ma's'  Wat !  Ma's'  Wat !  Ah  thought  yo'  was  daid— 
they  done  tole  me  yo'  was  daid."  He  soothed  her, 
patted  her  stooped  shoulders,  and  stroked  her  gnarled, 
fumbling  old  hands,  caressing  her  gently,  as  he  stood 
with  bared  head  before  her  out  there  under  the  stars. 

He  looked  up  at  his  waiting  men.  " She's  m'  'mammy,' 
boys,"  he  said. 

More  than  forty-eight  years  have  passed  since  that 
night,  but  the  men  who  saw  it  have  not  forgotten  it  to 
day.  Both  Jim  Wiltshire  and  Charlie  Vest  told  of  it 
when  they  told  the  story  of  that  last  raid.  "It  was 
beautiful — that  old  woman's  joy;  a  mighty  affectin' 
sight  to  see." 

And  she  fed  them!  Lord  love  you,  yes — would  have 
fed  them  though  " Bull-dog"  Stanton  and  his  whole 

146 


BOWIE 

Secret  Service  howled  around  her  door.  Ham  and  corn- 
bread  and  bacon — it  was  scarce  those  days,  but — Marse 
Wat  hungry !  Marse  Wat !  She  would  have  given  them 
all  she  had  if  they  had  allowed  it.  She  cried  when  he 
rode  away. 

It  was  a  strange  raid — more  a  pleasure  ride  of  friends 
through  a  sunny,  smiling  land — that  next  day.  Dawn 
brought  them  to  Bowie's  home,  and  they  hid  their  horses 
in  the  wood  and  stole  into  the  house.  His  mother  and 
sisters  were  to  be  greeted  after  a  long  absence,  and  per 
haps  even  the  Girl  was  there.  And  then  he  must  pre 
sent  his  men — he  led  them  forward  one  by  one;  this  was 
the  first  chance  for  the  mother  and  the  girls  to  meet 
the  men  of  his  command.  The  servants  had  been  sent 
away  lest  they  carry  tales,  and  so  the  girls  themselves 
served  the  meal.  And  later,  when  the  shyness  had  passed 
away,  the  sturdy  campaign-stained  cavalrymen  and  the 
slender  white-clad  girls,  there  in  the  cool  parlor  with  the 
low-drawn  shades,  clustered  about  the  piano  and  sang — 
" Maryland!  My  Maryland!"  " Dixie,"  and  "The  Bon 
nie  Blue  Flag" — a  dozen  more,  and  all  over  again — with 
their  host  and  leader,  proud  of  his  men,  more  light- 
heartedly  gay  than  ever  before. 

In  the  twilight  they  rode  away  again — a  swift  journey 
back  to  war.  Brune  Bowie,  a  brother,  convalescent  of  a 
wound,  had  joined  them,  making  nine. 

The  story  runs  swift  to  the  end.  No  one  but  Bowie 
could  have  led  such  a  band  into  the  very  heart  of  Mary 
land — and  not  a  shot  fired,  no  alarm,  no  pursuit.  He 
knew  the  country,  but  better  still,  the  people — whom  to 
trust,  whom  to  fear;  and  he  made  only  one  mistake. 
And  so  at  last  they  reached  the  vicinity  of  Annapolis, 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

and  Bowie,  Wiltshire,  and  Vest  left  the  others  hid  in  a 
wood  and  rode  into  town  to  reconnoiter — perhaps  to 
bring  off  the  governor  if  the  chance  offered. 

O'Bannon,  Radcliffe,  Smith,  Haney,  Randolph,  and 
Brune  Bowie  waited,  and  the  strain  grew  greater  with  each 
passing  hour.  They  were  at  tension  every  moment, 
expecting  the  order  "Forward,"  perhaps  shots,  or  else 
to  hear  from  the  others,  dashing  by,  the  signal  calling 
them  to  join  in  the  wild  ride  for  the  ford — the  signal  that 
meant  success,  that  the  governor  was  in  their  power. 
And  so  they  waited  beside  their  horses  while  hours  passed. 
Then  out  of  the  dark  three  men  rode  up  slowly — only  three. 
They  were  sullen,  crestfallen;  the  expedition  had  ended 
in  flat-footed  failure.  The  governor — the  devil  take  him ! 
—was  in  Washington  for  a  day,  a  week,  ten  days — no  one 
knew.  Worse,  Annapolis  was  crowded  with  recruits, 
with  armed  troops;  it  had  been  turned  into  an  enrolment 
camp  since  their  plans  had  been  made;  the  very  streets 
were  bivouacs. 

They  turned  toward  Virginia;  they  had  failed.  None 
pursued,  and  they  rode  leisurely  back  a  different  way. 
A  night  or  two  later  they  were  in  Montgomery  County, 
and  the  road  led  by  the  village  of  Sandy  Spring.  The  one 
mistake  was  here.  The  cross-roads  store  attracted 
them;  they  were  hungry. 

"We'll  dine  here,"  Bowie  said.  One  or  two  tried  to 
dissuade  him.  "It  '11  only  start  trouble,  Wat,"  they  said. 
Perhaps  his  failure  rankled,  for  he  would  not  heed,  but 
ordered  them  into  the  store.  They  broke  in  and  rifled 
the  shelves  of  canned  goods — whatever  they  fancied,  or 
could  carry  away  with  ease ;  and  the  helpless  owner  fumed 
and  glowered.  Then,  deliberately,  they  rode  away;  a 

148 


BOWIE 

few  shots  were  fired  from  the  roadside:  they  answered 
with  a  careless  volley  and  indifferently  galloped  on. 
Not  far — a  few  miles  at  most — and  then  a  pine-clad  knoll 
thrust  itself  up  from  the  fields,  and  they  climbed  its  dark 
slope  and  camped;  joyously  they  broke  open  their  stolen 
tins  and  feasted,  then  lay  down  and  slept  in  the  circle  of 
pines.  .  .  . 

Voices  down  on  the  road — hoofbeats.  A  sleepy  raider 
awoke  and  sat  up ;  the  sun  was  an  hour  or  two  high.  He 
aroused  his  comrades ;  the  voices  in  the  road  grew  louder, 
became  an  angry,  ominous  roar.  Startled,  they  crept 
to  the  edge  and  looked  down.  A  boy's  voice  shrilled, 
''They're  there— I  seen  'em!"  The  road  seemed  filled 
with  men  and  horses;  more  were  riding  up  every  moment. 
There  were  thirty — forty — maybe  even  more — they  kept 
moving  about  so.  Some  dismounted  and  left  their 
horses  to  be  held  by  boys  or  by  old  men.  The  citizens 
had  armed ;  the  storekeeper  of  Sandy  Spring  had  done  his 
work  well.  There  were  home  guards  and  conscripts, 
convalescent  regulars,  old  graybeards,  and  excited,  shrill- 
voiced  boys. 

They  eddied  about  in  the  road  aimlessly;  muzzles 
wavered  toward  Bowie's  men  from  all  sides — old  muskets, 
shotguns,  squirrel-rifles ;  one  or  two  loud-mouthed  citizens 
had  great  rusty  swords  that  they  valiantly  waved.  It  was 
a  mob.  Now  and  then  a  nervously  aimed  musket  was 
fired,  and  the  bullet  whined  amid  the  pines.  The  raiders 
oegan  to  laugh.  They  held  a  hasty  council.  "They  are 
too  many,"  several  urged. 

Bowie  shook  his  head.  "We'll  fight,"  he  said.  They 
lined  up  on  foot,  Bowie  in  the  center,  four  on  either  side. 

149 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

He  had  a  little  silver  whistle  between  his  teeth,  a  revolver 
in  either  hand.  "Ready?"  he  asked,  bending  forward 
and  peering  along  his  battle-line.  They  in  the  road  had 
become  strangely,  ominously  still.  Would  they  stand? 
Charlie  Vest,  then  aged  seventeen,  says  he  was  afraid. 

"This  is  about  all,  Jim  —  they  are  too  many  this 
time!" 

Wiltshire  gripped  his  hand  an  instant.  "Never  give 
up  the  ship  while  the  flag  flies." 

The  little  silver  whistle  blew.  They  rushed  down  the 
slope  into  the  road,  yelling  and  firing  the  revolvers  in  each 
hand.  Whirlwinds  of  fallen  autumn  leaves;  stumps, 
clusters  of  low  bushes  to  leap  over;  stones  that  rolled 
and  turned  underfoot;  and  then  in  a  brown  fog  of  dust, 
a  mad  tangle  of  plunging,  riderless  horses  that  galloped 
back  and  forth,  and  reared,  and  kicked,  and  fell;  a  tumult 
of  fear-crazed  men  who  fired  their  guns  in  the  air,  then 
threw  them  away  and  ran,  and  fell  in  the  dust  and  leaped 
up  and  screamed,  and  ran  on.  And  above  all  other 
sounds  rose  the  guffaws  of  the  raiders  as  they  seized  the 
horses  or  wantonly  fired  at  the  little  figures  that  scurried, 
cravenly,  across  the  sunny  fields. 

One  or  two  of  the  home  guard  ran  down  the  road; 
Bowie  leaped  out  after  them,  laughing,  shouting  joyously 
like  a  boy;  Wiltshire  and  Vest  followed,  less  fleetly,  but 
running  too.  They  saw  two  horsemen,  too  late  for  the 
fight,  ride  up  and  stop  uncertainly  across  a  little  stream. 
They  saw  them  raise  their  guns,  heard  Bowie  shout  and 
fire  and  miss ;  saw  the  horsemen  turn  and  gallop  furiously 
away,  and  heard  Bowie  shout  with  laughter. 

"Come  back,"  they  called;  "let  them  go — come  back, 
Wat!" 


BOWIE 

But  he  sped  on.  They  heard  him  still  laughing  as  he 
ran  beyond  the  bend  of  the  road.  There  was  the  report 
of  a  shotgun,  from  the  roadside,  close  at  hand;  then 
silence.  Wiltshire  and  Vest  sprang  forward.  Their 
vengeance  never  fell,  for  they  could  not  find  the  man. 


THE    PHILLIPSES— FATHER  AND   SON 

MEN  made  the  great  war.  Thoughtful,  prayerful  men, 
of  mighty  intellect  and  soul-deep  conviction,  they  strove 
together  and  drew  a  scratch  upon  the  ground  from  east 
to  west,  a  line  to  divide  South  from  North.  Together 
they  kindled  a  fire,  and  into  a  vast  and  devastating  flame 
they  together  fanned  it. 

Some,  that  by  it  the  line  might  be  fused  into  an  im 
perishable  barrier;  some,  that  the  line  might  forever  be 
consumed.  The  war  was  made  by  men. 

But  the  children,  too,  were  drawn  by  the  draught  of 
this  terrible  fire.  More  than  six  hundred  thousand  of 
the  Federal  enlistments  were  by  lads  not  yet  twenty-one. 
There  were  thousands  of  children  in  the  ranks  of  the 
North  from  thirteen  to  fifteen  years  of  age. 

But  of  all  this  blood-stained  army  there  is  none  of  whom 
there  is  record  who  served  as  did  Charles  H.  Phillips, 
aged  fourteen,  who  for  four  years  was  a  Federal  spy  in 
the  city  of  Richmond. 

Some  time  early  in  the  winter  of  '61  John  Y.  Phillips 
was  sent  to  Richmond  by  his  employers,  R.  M.  Hoe  &  Co., 
of  New  York  City,  to  set  up  and  put  in  operation  one 
of  their  newspaper-presses  for  the  Richmond  Dispatch. 
Four  and  a  half  years  later  he  returned,  and  there  gathered 
about  him  old  friends  and  former  neighbors. 

152 


JOHN    Y.    PHILLIPS 

From  a  war-time  portrait 


THE    PHILLIPSES 

"What  did  you  do,  John,  in  Richmond  all  through  the 
war?"  said  they.  And  John  Phillips  would  draw  him 
self  up  and,  with  dignity  and  pride,  slowly  say,  "I 
furnished  the  government  with  a  lot  of  important  secret 
information." 

"What!"  the  old  friends  would  chorus.  "What, 
John!  Secret  service!  How?" 

"That,"  John  Phillips  would  answer,  "is  a  very  long 
story  to  tell."  But  he  never  told  the  story.  Perhaps  he 
but  faithfully  kept  some  pledge  of  silence;  perhaps  in 
Richmond  and  the  South  comrades  of  those  perilous  days 
were  living  to  as  ripe  an  age  as  he.  He  had  his  reasons 
— and  he  never  told. 

No  high  resolve  to  aid  his  country  in  the  coming  war 
kept  John  Phillips  in  Richmond  when  the  work  which 
took  him  there  was  done.  He  stayed  because  he  was  of 
fered  a  better  position,  greater  earnings  in  his  peaceful 
trade. 

He  was  to  work  as  pressman  for  the  Dispatch,  but  his 
real  work  was  to  repair  the  press  of  any  newspaper  in 
Richmond  when  it  should  break  down.  As  for  the  war — 
what  war?  This  was  but  the  cry  of  "Wolf,  wolf!" — there 
would  be  no  war! 

And  so  in  March  he  brought  his  family  down — his 
wife,  and  Charlie  (whose  story  is  to  be  told),  aged  fourteen; 
Jim,  aged  eleven;  and  the  two  little  girls.  They  took  a 
house  on  Shockhoe  Hill,  on  the  very  outskirts  of  the  city; 
and  there  Charlie  became  for  the  first  time  a  country  lad — 
hunted  and  fished  and  "just  rammed  'round,"  learning> 
boy-like,  every  foot  of  the  country  for  miles;  also  such 
lore  as  telling  time  by  the  sun,  and  north  by  the  moss  on 
trees.  One  thing  more  he  learned — to  "talk  'Dixie'" 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

like  the  other  boys,  black  and  white,  with  whom  he  played. 
He  little  dreamed  what  he  should  do  with  the  knowledge 
later  on. 

Then  down  in  South  Carolina  a  cannon  was  fired.  The 
war  was  begun.  The  Phillipses  could  have  gone  North 
at  first,  but  Mr.  Llewellyn,  of  the  Dispatch,  urged  John 
Phillips  to  stay,  and  promised  to  "see  them  through." 
After  a  while  it  became  too  late  to  go.  For  the  most  part 
those  schools  taught  by  men  teachers  closed,  and  sweet 
holidays  came  to  little  Charlie  Phillips  and  cloyed  his 
appetite  before  he  had  gulped  down  a  month  of  them. 
Then  he  volunteered  to  tend  fly  (the  rack  where  the  print 
ed  sheets  come  off  the  press),  and  night  after  night  he 
stood  amid  the  clanking  presses  of  the  Dispatch  office  de 
lightedly  sniffing  the  acrid  smell  of  damp  paper  and  fresh 
ink,  of  spring  midnights,  and,  in  the  late  telegrams,  the 
pungent  smell  of  war. 

And  there,  one  night,  his  father  quietly  called  him  from 
his  work.  He  was  to  carry  a  note,  he  was  told.  He  re 
members  to-day  how  his  father  looked  at  him  with 
grave,  piercing  eyes,  and— 

'" Don't  ask  questions,'  father  said.  ' Don't  be  gabby. 
Keep  your  mouth  shut  and  your  eyes  open — now  and 
always." 

He  was  to  go  down  by  the  Old  Market  until  he  met 
a  man  (described,  but  not  named) ,  to  whom  he  was  not  to 
speak  unless  the  man  asked  if  father  had  sent  him.  That, 
then,  would  be  the  right  man,  and  he  was  to  give  him  the 
note 'and  go  home  to  bed. 

Without  direct  words  he  was  made  to  understand  that 
this  was  no  ordinary  note,  and  the  thought  sent  him  out 
into,  the  deserted  streets  thrilled  and  proud. 


THE    PHILLIPSES 

From  the  shadow  of  the  Old  Market  itself  a  man  stepped 
out. 

"Did  y'  pa  send  ye  down  here  to  me?"  he  drawled. 

The  boy  fished  out  the  scrap  of  paper,  which  he  had 
concealed  about  his  clothes. 

"Where  was  y*  pa  when  y'  left  him?"  the  man  inno 
cently  questioned. 

The  boy  hesitated.  "I  don't  know,"  he  said,  des 
perately. 

"I  reckon  you'll  do,"  chuckled  the  man. 

It  was  the  first  lesson  in  the  new  school,  a  lesson  re 
peated  until  the  test  was  many  times  complete:  To  do 
what  he  was  told  to  do — no  less,  but  of  a  greater  cer 
tainty — no  more ! 

They,  his  teachers  (those  men  whom  he  found  by  their 
descriptions,  but  never  from  their  names),  hammered  in 
the  lesson  by  mental  assaults  full  of  feints  and  twists  and 
trips  and  all  manner  of  unfair  advantages — simulated 
anger,  jocose  friendliness,  flattery,  surprise — but  he  al 
ways  kept  his  wits,  and  to  no  questions  that  they  asked 
(once  he  had  delivered  the  message  that  he  had  been  told 
to  give)  did  he  ever  know  an  answer. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  boy,"  they  would  say.  "You  know 
you  can  trust  us — we  are  all  right." 

"Sure!"  he  would  answer.  "But  how  can  I  tell  you 
if  I  don't  know?" 

And  thus  the  lesson  went  on,  a  lesson  with  a  twofold 
purpose :  they  were  teaching  him  that  he  was  only  a  sharp 
little  tool,  dangerous  to  himself  and  to  them  unless  under 
their  control;  and  they  were  preparing  him — for  his  sake 
and  theirs — against  the  day  when  he  should  be  caught. 

The  despatches  or  messages  were  written  usually  on  nar- 

155 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

row  strips  of  thin  paper  and  rolled  into  little  wads,  which 
Charlie  carried  in  an  inner  seam  of  his  trousers.  Where 
the  messages  came  from,  where  they  went,  who  wrote 
them,  who  read  them  ultimately,  he  will  never  know. 
Sometimes  the  man  to  whom  he  had  carried  a  message 
read  it,  rerolled  it,  and  bade  him  take  it  to  another  of  the 
spies.  As  for  what  the  messages  said,  how  should  he 
know  ? .  .  .  • "  Open  them  ?  What !  Open  them !  You  never 
knew  my  father.  Father  would  'a'  killed  me — I  do  be 
lieve  he  would  'a'  killed  me.  Some  way  he  would  have 
known — but  it  never  entered  my  head  to  open  one  of 
those  little  wads.  My  father  was  a  great  big  man.  He 
had  a  brown  beard  and  no  mustache,  so  that  you  saw  his 
straight,  thin-lipped  mouth.  To  me  my  father  was  a 
god  that  I  worshiped,  like  I  was  a  little  heathen  and  him 
the  sun.  My  father  knew  everything,  and  was  never 
wrong,  always  dignified,  an'  kind  o'  cold;  but  he  had  the 
warmest  heart — and  the  heaviest  hand — of  any  man  I  ever 
knew."  So  that  was  it — idolatry!  That  queer,  rare 
blending  of  love  and  fear  that  makes  for  perfect,  blind 
obedience:  we  shall  understand  little  Charlie  Phillips 
better  now. 

There  came  time  for  the  learning  of  a  second  lesson  in  a 
sterner  school.  When  his  father  asked  the  simple  ques 
tion,  "Would  you  like  to  sell  newspapers,  Charlie?" 
the  boy  answered:  "Yes,  sir.  Sure!"  He  knew  he  would 
not  have  been  asked  to  sell  papers  if  selling  papers  were 
all.  And  so  he  was  given  a  stock  in  trade  and  told  that 
he  "had  better  go  sell  'em  down  at  the  Rocketts'  at  the 
early  boat. ' '  To  the  Rocketts'  (the  boat-landing)  he  went, 
and  joined  the  small  army  of  newsboys  that  gathered 
to  sell  first -editions  to  the  many  passengers  leaving  at  the 

156 


THE    PHILLIPSES 

early  hour  of  four  in  the  morning.  He  was  small  and 
slight  and  fair-haired,  and  of  a  singular  whiteness  of  skin, 
so  that  he  looked  delicate  and  younger  than  his  actual 
age.  For  this  reason  he  was  imposed  upon  and  bullied 
and  thrown  aside;  and  then,  just  as  his  father  had  known 
that  he  would,  he  turned  and  fought  his  way.  He  de 
lights  to-day  to  tell  of  some  of  those  fights  in  the  gray 
half-light  of  dawn :  berserker  fights  of  boyhood  they  were 
—fierce,  bare-fist,  rough-and-tumble  battles  with  half- 
grown  negroes,  who  made  up  nine-tenths  of  the  ''newsies" 
of  Richmond.  It  was  a  Spartan  school  which  at  last 
turned  him  out  hard  and  sharp  ("fly,"  he  calls  it),  agile 
and  vigilant,  self-reliant,  confident — a  finished  product. 

He  was  not  told  what  he  was  to  do  later  on,  but  if  he 
did  not  guess  he  soon  learned  that  his  bundle  of  newspapers 
was  a  badge  more  potent  than  is  the  Red  Cross  of  the 
non-combatant  of  to-day,  a  passport  by  which  he  entered 
prisons  and  crossed  picket-lines,  a  commodity  which 
made  him  welcome  in  camp  and  arsenal,  in  rifle-pit  and 
department  office. 

There  was  that  first  trip  out  of  Richmond — a  simple 
affair,  merely  the  delivery  of  a  message.  It  was  so  easily 
done  that  he  has  forgotten  all  except  that  it  was  to  Peters 
burg  that  he  made  his  first  trip  "outside."  "Was  told 
to  do  something  and  did  it."  He  made  the  forty-five 
miles  in  less  than  one  day.  It  was  this  statement  that 
drew  from  Charles  Phillips  another  story — that  of  how 
he  had  learned  to  ride.  The  cavalry  stables  were  out 
along  the  old  Baconquarter  branch  road,  and  scores  of 
horses — raw  young  levies — in  charge  of  a  few  cavalry 
men  passed  the  Phillipses'  house  each  day.  "Us  boys" 
would  dash  out  and  vault  onto  the  bare  backs  of  the  wild- 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

est  of  the  plunging  horses  and,  clinging  by  their  manes, 
ride  in  triumph  to  the  stables  amid  the  cheers — or  jeers 
(for  there  were  hard  falls  some  days) — of  the  delighted 
cavalrymen.  In  time  he  learned  to  ride  "anything." 

Then  came  the  Lynchburg  trip,  when  for  the  first  time 
he  acted  as  a  spy.  But  it  is  not  the  spy  part  which  looms 
large  in  his  own  story;  it  is  the  never-to-be-forgotten 
glamour  of  that  first  long  trip  alone,  the  tang  of  traveling 
on  a  first-class  ticket  on  a  first-class  packet  of  the  James 
River  Canal.  His  * '  uncle ' '  met  him  at  the  wharf  and  took 
him  home  and  told  him  (for  the  first  time)  what  he  was 
to  do.  Few  points  in  the  story  of  this  child  strike  so 
sharply  home  as  the  blind  obedience  which  sent  him  to 
do  he  knew  not  what.  Next  day  he  was  on  the  Lynch 
burg  streets  selling  Richmond  papers,  and  presently — a 
spy — he  was  in  the  arsenal  selling  his  papers  there. 

'"Newsies'  can  get  in  almost  anywhere — you  know 
that,"  he  explains.  "And  once  in,  it  wasn't  so  hard  as 
you  might  think.  Every  one  was  thinking  of  nothing 
but  the  war,  so,  'Gee!'  I'd  say,  'ain't  ye  got  a  lot  o'  can 
nons  here!'  An'  workmen  would  say  something  like 
'Ain't  them  the  guns,  though!  Won't  they  just  blow 
the  Yanks  to  hell!  Forty  o'  those  six-inchers!'  And 
that  would  be  something  worth  remembering  right  there." 

In  a  few  days  he  found  out  "more  than  a  lot,"  though 
the  man — his  "uncle" — never  told  him  what  was  done 
with  the  information  that  he  gave.  But  let  it  be  re 
membered  that  information  regarding  the  extent  of  mili 
tary  stores  was  of  prime  importance  those  days,  and  that 
Lynchburg  was  one  of  the  chief  storehouses. 

He  was  sent  home  afoot  to  Richmond,  making  most  of 
the  journey  at  night;  and  this  was  not  because  it  was 

158 


THE    PHILLIPSES 

safer  then,  but  in  order  to  save  his  complexion!  That 
pallid  skin  and  the  appearance  of  being  extremely  young 
and  innocent  were  the  only  disguises  which  he  ever  needed 
or  ever  wore.  And  when  he  had  reached  home  again, 
and  the  curiosity  of  playmates  must  be  stilled,  the  satis 
fying  explanation  was,  "Oh,  been  sick!"  And  the  white 
face  and  an  assumed  languor  did  the  rest.  He  spent 
four  very  "sickly"  years. 

The  autumn  passed  into  winter;  the  war  was  fairly 
begun.  Now  and  then,  as  dusk  fell,  a  guest  would 
ostentatiously  ring  at  the  Phillipses'  front  door  to  cover 
the  arrival  of  stealthy  shadows  who  stole  in  at  the  back 
from  the  open  fields.  The  boy  never  was  present  at  those 
secret  meetings.  His  father's  quiet  "I  want  you  to  leave 
the  room  "  would  send  him  impassively  to  bed.  He  never 
questioned,  never  sought  to  know;  but  he  tells  now  that 
in  his  heart  he  ceaselessly  wondered  at  it  all. 

Father  and  mother  set  an  example  which  taught  that 
the  very  walls  had  ears,  and  in  the  Phillipses'  household 
the  war  was  never  mentioned  at  all.  But  his  mother 
knew,  for  now  and  then  she  would  stroke  his  hair  and 
softly  say,  "Be  careful,  Charlie,  be  very  careful!" — just 
that — to  show  him  that  she  knew. 

Mid-afternoon  of  a  winter's  day  he  rode  out  of  Rich 
mond  in  one  of  the  procession  of  market  carts  and  wagons 
that  was  returning  to  the  outlying  farms.  Dusk  fell,  and 
still  they  drove  on  westward,  he  and  the  grim,  silent  man 
on  the  jolting  seat  beside  him.  That  night  they  spent 
with  a  negro  family  in  a  wretched  one-room  cabin.  In  the 
morning  before  the  sun  had  risen  they  were  on  the  road 
again.  The  wagon  had  been  left  behind;  they  rode  the 
two  horses  and  carried  with  them  only  their  blankets. 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

All  that  day  they  rode  westward,  always  westward; 
and  the  next  and  the  next  day,  and  so  on  and  on  till  the 
boy  lost  all  count  of  time.  The  road  at  last  ended  on  the 
bank  of  the  Cumberland  River  at  the  little  village  of 
Dover.  They  did  not  enter  the  town  together,  and  after 
that  when  they  passed  in  the  village  street  the  two  were 
to  each  other  as  utter  strangers. 

It  was  a  straggling,  dull  little  village;  but  on  the  hill 
to  the  north,  looking  sullenly  down  on  town  and  river, 
were  the  raw  clay  ramparts  *  of  heavy  fortifications,  above 
which,  a  dark  speck  against  the  leaden  sky,  fluttered  the 
Confederate  flag  of  Fort  Donelson.  By  instruction  the 
boy  rode  to  a  described  house  and,  slipping  wearily  from 
his  horse,  knocked  at  the  door.  It  opened  suddenly,  and 
a  man  hurried  out.  He  gave  the  boy  no  chance  to  speak. 

"Well,  if  here  isn't  brother  John's  boy  at  last!"  He 
turned  genially  to  the  gaping  villagers.  ''Him  as  I  was 
telling  you  about."  Then  to  the  boy:  "I'm  your  uncle 
Peter.  But  come  in!  Come  in!"  Few  actors  could 
have  done  it  as  well.  But  when  the  door  had  closed  on 
them,  how  they  must  have  looked  each  other  up  and 
down ! 

At  first  there  was  the  old  newsboy  game  of  selling 
papers  in  the  fort,  but  the  boy  quickly  felt  that  that  was 
not  to  be  all,  that  something  else  was  hanging  over  him. 
After  a  while  they  told  him  what  it  was :  he  was  to  make 
friends  with  a  certain  young  woman  in  the  town.  He  was 
"what  you  would  call  a  pretty  boy."  Women  always 
tried  to  pet  him — which  he,  boy-like,  had  hated.  But  he 
was  nearly  fifteen  now,  and  here  was  a  girl  but  four  or 
five  years  his  senior,  just  such  a  "first  girl"  as  boys  of  his 
age  adore.  Here  was  the  woman  who  might  pet  him  all 

1 60 


THE    PHILLIPSES 

she  pleased.  It  was  no  time  before  she  was  calling  him 
her  little  beau  and  flaunting  him  at  a  red-faced  captain 
from  Donelson. 

Presently  she  sent  a  note  by  the  boy.  He  was  to  be 
careful  and  give  it  to  the  captain  himself.  He  promised, 
and  kept  his  word — but  not  until  he  had  turned  aside 
into  a  thicket  and  given  the  note  first  to  the  man  by  whom 
he  had  been  brought  to  Dover.  The  man  read  the  note, 
which  he  hastily  copied,  resealed,  and  gave  back  to  the 
boy.  There  were  other  notes  (despatches?)  in  the  next 
few  days,  and  they  all  were  read  and  copied,  but  it  was 
Charlie  Phillips  himself  who  spoiled  the  smoothly  working 
plan. 

There  had  been  too  much  petting  of  this  too  large  boy 
to  please  a  jealous  captain.  Some  one  had  been  taunting 
or  tale-bearing,  and  the  captan  in  a  rage  met  the  boy 
one  day  in  the  road  before  he  had  reached  the  fort.  "I'd 
like  to  shoo  toff  your  blank  young  head!"  said  the  captain. 
He  drew  a  revolver,  and  the  boy  snatched  up  a  stone. 
As  the  captain  stood  there  blustering  and  threatening 
("It  wasn't  that  I  was  scared  that  he  would  shoot  such  a 
kid,"  Charlie  Phillips  explains,  "but  I  just  never  liked 
him!")  the  boy  suddenly  threw  the  stone  with  all  his 
might.  It  struck  the  man  on  the  temple,  and  he 
crumpled  down  on  the  road.  The  boy  stared  for  an  in 
stant,  then  turned  and  ran.  That  night  he  impudently 
told  the  girl  of  it.  "Served  him  right,"  she  said.  "I  can 
get  another  captain  easy." 

When  the  fort  fell,  Charlie  Phillips  saw  the  captain 

marched  from  the  hospital  a  prisoner.     But  he  saw  many 

things  before  that  time.     He  saw  Dover  village  wake  up 

and  find  itself  invested  by  Grant's  army.     From  behind 

11  161 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

the  Federal  lines  he  saw  the  three  days'  fighting  when  the 
earth  shook  with  the  thunder  of  cannon  from  hill  and  fort 
and  river.  He  saw  Grant.  He  was  taken  to  head 
quarters  by  the  man  who  had  brought  him  to  Dover, 
and  there  General  Grant  and  the  man  talked  together 
just  beyond  his  earshot.  They  looked  over  at  him  often, 
and  the  General  several  times  thoughtfully  nodded  at 
what  the  man  said.  And  the  next  day,  when  the  fort  and 
the  town  had  been  taken,  the  boy  saw  (though  she  did 
not  see  him)  "his  girl"  arrested  by  a  file  of  soldiers  and 
marched  away:  his  handiwork. 

Twelve  years  after  the  war,  when  Charles  H.  Phillips, 
a  policeman  in  New  York  City,  was  patrolling  his  beat,  he 
met  and  recognized  "his  girl "  again.  She  had  been  taken 
North — to  prison  in  Illinois — but  had  soon  been  released, 
so  she  told  him.  After  that  the  war  was  never  mentioned. 
Next  evening  the  young  policeman  called  at  her  home 
to  be  presented  to  her  husband  and  the  children — which 
all  goes  to  prove  that  the  story  must  be  truth.  Romance 
would  indubitably  have  had  him  marry  her. 

Spring  had  come  before  Charlie  saw  Richmond  again. 
His  was  a  home-coming  that  he  has  never  forgotten.  For 
once  his  father's  reserve  gave  way,  and  he  caught  both 
his  boy's  hands  and  wrung  them,  and  his  voice  trembled 
as  he  said,  "I  had  begun  to  believe  that  my  son  would 
never  again  come  home!"  Perhaps  he  feared,  too,  that 
even  should  his  son  return  the  boy  might  find  his  father 
gone,  for  two  Federal  spies  from  the  Army  of  the  Potomac, 
Lewis  and  Scully,  had  been  taken  in  Richmond  and  were 
condemned  to  hang.  Those  were  anxious  days  for  the 
Unionists.  Detection  of  any  of  their  number  was  like 
a  plague  broken  out  in  their  midst.  Where  all  had  been 

162 


THE    PHILLIPSES 

exposed  to  the  contagion,  no  man  might  say  who  would 
be  stricken  next.  But  when  the  blow  fell  it  was  upon  one 
man,  Timothy  Webster,  and  only  he  was  hanged.  Charlie 
Phillips  saw  the  execution.  From  the  branches  of  the 
trees  outside  the  fence  of  the  old  Fair  Grounds  he  and 
scores  of  other  boys  watched  it,  then  went  home  to  din 
ner,  excitedly  discussing  each  detail  among  themselves. 
Charlie  Phillips  had  already  done  that  which  might 
within  the  fortnight  send  both  him  and  his  father  out 
upon  the  very  road  he  had  idly  watched  another  take. 

But  the  despatch-bearing  and  the  paper-selling  were 
kept  up  unflinchingly  until  there  came  the  order  once  again 
to  leave  Richmond.  There  had  come  the  battle  of  Gaines's 
Mill,  the  second  of  the  Seven  Days.  Lee  had  saved 
Richmond.  From  Gaines's  Mill  on  the  north  to  Har 
rison's  Landing  on  the  south  the  whole  country-side  was 
covered  with  freshly  made  graves  and  still  unburied  dead, 
with  abandoned  munitions  of  war  also ;  and  for  weeks  the 
agents  of  the  Confederacy  gathered  in  the  spoils.  It  was 
into  this  hell-swept  country  that  Charlie  Phillips  was  sent 
to  meet  a  man  who  would  "use"  him. 

He  took  fishing-tackle,  "borrowed"  a  boat,  and  quietly 
paddled  about,  fishing  here  and  there,  drifting  with  the 
current  down  the  river.  Four  or  five  miles  below  Rich 
mond  he  rowed  ashore  and  struck  inland  cross  country, 
heading  for  the  line  of  the  Federal  retreat.  At  the  des 
ignated  place  he  met  his  man,  who  seemed  unprepared 
yet  to  "use"  him,  but  instead  asked  if  he  would  be  afraid 
to  sleep  alone  that  night  in  the  woods.  "No,"  the  boy 
answered,  simply.  When  the  man  had  left  him  he  moved 
farther  in  among  the  trees,  groping  about  in  the  darkness 
to  find  a  sleeping-place.  Few  recollections  of  the  war 

163 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

equal  in  sharpness  his  remembrance  of  the  birds  that 
night:  every  manner  of  carrion  bird  perched,  glutted, 
upon  every  branch,  it  seemed,  of  every  tree  in  the  forest. 
Wherever  he  went  he  disturbed  them,  heard  the  beat 
ing  and  flapping  of  unseen  wings  above  him.  All  that 
night  he  was  fretted  by  their  noises,  sickened  by  the  very 
thought  of  them. 

Dawn  came,  and  with  it  the  man.  "Come  on!"  he 
said,  brusquely.  For  hours  they  trudged  along  the  line 
of  the  Quaker  Road  down  which  the  sullen  Army  of  the 
Potomac  in  retreat  had  marched  and  fought  and  had 
flung  away  or  destroyed  at  every  pause  all  they  could  no 
longer  transport  or  carry.  The  man  and  the  boy  wandered 
among  the  wreckage,  all  for  the  purpose,  the  boy  gathered, 
of  forming  an  estimate  of  what  munitions  would  fall  into 
the  hands  of  the  Confederates.  At  last,  toward  midday 
the  man  wrote  out  a  message  and  curtly  told  the  boy  to 
take  it  and  start  home  to  Richmond. 

That  night  he  spent  in  a  negro  cabin.  At  sunrise  he 
pushed  on  again.  He  still  followed  the  general  line  of  the 
chain  of  battles,  but  far  to  the  side,  to  give  wide  berth 
to  parties  of  wreckers  or  of  straggling  soldiers;  yet  even 
here  were  waifs  of  the  battle,  dead  men  out  of  bounds  for 
the  burying-parties. 

And  then,  in  a  clump  of  bushes,  the  boy  came  upon 
a  soldier.  The  man  was  kneeling  beside  a  uniformed 
figure  rifling  the  pockets.  He  looked  up  startled,  but, 
seeing  it  was  only  a  boy,  bent  again  over  the  body. 
Charlie  Phillips,  telling  of  it,  speaks  in  awed  wonder  of 
the  madness  that  fell  upon  him,  rage  such  as  he  never 
since  has  seen  or  known.  He  snatched  up  a  rusty  musket, 
and  the  man,  reading  in  his  eyes  a  purpose  of  which  the 

164 


THE    PHILLIPSES 

boy  himself  was  hardly  conscious,  sprang  to  his  feet  with 
an  oath  and  caught  up  a  broken  saber,  then  struck  as  a 
snarling  animal  strikes.  The  blow,  ill  parried,  glanced 
down  the  musket-barrel  and  gashed  open  the  thumb 
that  held  it;  but  the  boy  swung  the  musket  under  the 
man's  guard  and  felled  him,  then  in  blind  fury  made  many 
times  sure  that  he  had  killed  him. 

Back  in  Richmond  his  father  asked,  "What  happened 
to  the  thumb,  Charlie?" 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "I  cut  it."  The  scar  is  there  to-day,  a 
memento  of  the  man  who  gave  it. 

Winter  came  again,  the  winter  of  '62-^63,  when  con 
scription  began  to  grow  more  rigorous.  John  Phillips 
concocted,  in  what  purported  to  be  the  Family  Bible,  a 
new  register  of  ages  for  himself  and  his  sons.  He  beat 
the  conscription  laws,  but  there  was  still  the  home  guard, 
which  at  last  he  refused  to  join;  then  the  soldiers  came  and 
marched  him  away.  Charlie  remembers  the  terror  he 
and  his  mother  were  in  lest  it  be  on  a  graver  charge. 
But  the  newspapers  (which  they  have  kept  to  this  day) 
brought  reassurance  that,  after  all,  it  was  but  the  simple 
accusation:  "John  Y.  Phillips,  Castle  Godwin;  committed 
March  2oth;  charge,  disloyalty."  For  sixty-four  days 
John  Phillips  lay  in  Castle  Godwin,  that  had  been  Mc 
Donald's  negro  jail  before  the  war.  It  was  while  his 
father  was  in  prison  that  the  boy  accomplished  a  bit 
of  service  unequaled  for  sheer  impudence  and  audacity 
— in  short,  stole  a  Confederate  despatch  out  of  the  office 
of  Provost-Marshal-General  Winder. 

There  came  to  him  one  day  as  he  was  selling  papers 
one  of  those  men  whom  he  recognized  as  having  authority 
over  him,  for  it  was  as  though  he  had  been  presented 

165 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

body  and  soul  to  the  Secret  Service.  He  was  a  communis 
tic  tool  for  the  use  of  any  member.  He  was  told  to  go  to 
the  neighborhood  of  Winder's  office  and  watch  for  a  cer 
tain  (described)  man,  one  of  General  Winder's  force.  He 
was  to  follow  this  man  into  the  office  and  ''get "  the  paper 
which  he  would  lay  on  the  table;  and  that  was  exactly 
what  he  did.  He  followed  the  man  into  the  busy,  crowded 
office,  saw  him  lay  a  folded  paper  on  the  table,  and  im 
mediately  he  went  over  and  laid  his  newspapers  down  on 
top  of  it.  When  he  picked  them  up  again  the  despatch 
was  with  them,  and  he  went  out  of  the  office  with  it 
pressed  close  to  his  side.  Perhaps  there  was  a  high-and- 
low  hunt  and  a  hue  and  cry  when  the  despatch  was  missed 
—he  never  knew;  nor  does  he  know  whether  the  man  who 
brought  the  despatch  to  the  office  was  a  Federal  spy  who 
had  worked  himself  in  there  or  whether  he  was  one  who 
had  sold  himself  for  Secret  Service  money.  The  Unionist 
who  had  sent  him  for  the  paper  passed  soon  after.  The 
boy  deftly  slipped  the  despatch  to  him,  and  after  that  he 
did  not  care  even  if  he  were  searched,  and  he  loitered  in 
front  of  the  office  long  enough  to  set  at  rest  any  suspicions. 
There  is  the  story  of  how  at  last  Charlie  was  con 
scripted — ' '  got  the  collar. ' '  Not  much  of  a  story,  he  says ; 
then  swiftly  sketches  it  in  until  a  picture  has  been  made 
complete — the  soldiers  at  the  door  when  he  unsuspectingly 
opened  it  to  their  knock.  The  sight,  as  he  looked  back, 
of  his  mother  standing  framed  in  the  doorway  bravely 
waving  to  him,  the  crying  children  clinging  to  her  skirts ! 
It  wouldn't  have  seemed  so  bad  if  there  had  just  been 
a  little  sun,  but  that  had  been  such  a  dispiriting  day — 
slush  and  mud,  the  slowly  falling  snow,  and  the  lowering, 
unbroken  clouds.  The  soldiers  had  turned  him  into  a 

166 


THE    PHILLIPSES 

big,  gloomy  room,  stiflingly  overheated  and  crowded  with 
sullen  men  and  boys.  He  had  wandered  about  for  a 
time,  then,  with  suddenly  formed  purpose,  made  his  way 
to  the  door.  "Say,  I'm  sick  t'  my  stomach.  Le'  me  go 
to  the  wash-room,"  he  begged.  The  sentries  hesitated. 
There  were  other  guards  at  the  outer  doors,  and  this  was 
such  a  young,  white-faced  kid ;  they  nodded.  ' '  No  tricks, 
mind!"  one  said.  Once  around  the  turn  of  the  corridor, 
he  assumed  a  jaunty  air.  At  the  front  door  he  motioned 
the  guards  to  one  side.  "Ta,  ta,  boys — the  jedge  said 
I  was  to  go  home  an'  grow  some."  They  laughed  good- 
naturedly  and  let  him  by.  For  days  after  that  he  was 
afraid  to  go  home,  but  for  some  inexplicable  reason  they 
never  came  for  him  again. 

There  came  a  night  when,  on  his  way  to  the  office  for 
his  newspapers,  he  suddenly  met  his  father  and  another 
man.  His  father  made  a  sign  to  him  to  stop,  and  he 
stepped  back  into  the  shadows  and  waited.  He  over 
heard  the  man  say,  "But  it  has  got  to  be  done!"  And 
after  a  moment's  hesitation  his  father's  seemingly  reluc 
tant  answer,  "All  right — here's  the  boy."  John  Phillips 
motioned  to  his  son,  and  then  they  moved  away,  Charlie 
following  at  a  little  distance.  At  the  river's  edge  close 
to  Mayo  Bridge  they  stopped,  and  he  joined  them.  The 
night  was  cloudy;  heavy  rains  had  fallen,  and  the  river 
was  swollen  and  noisy.  It  was  here  that  they  told  the 
boy  for  the  first  time  what  he  was  to  do.  He  was  given 
the  despatch,  and  the  man  untied  a  flat-bottomed,  square- 
ended  boat,  into  which  Charlie  Phillips  climbed  and  lay 
down.  The  two  men  covered  the  boat  over  with  brush 
and  debris  until  the  gunwale  was  brought  down  within 
a  few  inches  of  the  water,  and  the  whole  looked  like  some 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

tangled  mass  of  wreckage ;  then  Charlie's  father  carefully 
pushed  it  out  until  it  was  caught  by  the  swift  current. 

Of  that  ride  details  like  these  stick  in  his  memory: 
the  sound  of  the  water  against  the  boat-sides  and  the  smell 
of  the  wet,  rotten  wood  above  him;  the  penetrating  chill 
as  his  clothes  soaked  up  the  seeping  water,  and  the  twinges 
of  pain  from  his  cramped  position;  the  loudness  of  the 
river  foaming  round  some  rock  or  snag,  dizzy  spinnings  in 
whirlpools,  or  the  rocking  and  bobbing  in  eddies  where 
portions  of  the  driftwood  blind  tore  loose  with  loud  rasp 
ings  and  crackles.  There  was  the  ever-present  thought 
that  the  boat  might  sink  and  he  be  entangled  and  held 
down  by  the  heap  of  driftwood;  but  worse  than  any 
sense  of  danger  was  the  feeling  of  utter  loneliness.  He 
trailed  an  old  broom  to  steer  with,  and,  when  the  flying 
wrack  of  clouds  blew  away  and  it  grew  lighter,  he  wabbled 
the  broom  to  make  the  too  straightly  drifting  boat 
better  simulate  a  pile  of  wreckage  borne  by  the  current. 
There  were  obstructions — old  ships  and  the  gunboat 
Jamestown  —  that  had  been  sunk  to  block  the  channel, 
and  the  river  was  studded  with  torpedoes ;  but  he  had  been 
warned  and  instructed,  so  hugged  the  left-hand  shore 
and  thus  avoided  them.  A  shot  brought  his  heart  into 
his  throat  as  he  drifted  past  Fort  Darling  on  Drewry's 
Bluff,  but  it  was  followed  by  no  others.  At  last  he  went 
ashore  on  the  north  bank,  and  there,  by  comparison  with 
what  had  gone  before,  the  adventure  seemed  ended.  He 
slept  in  the  woods  all  next  day.  At  dusk  he  swam  across 
and  "delivered  the  message." 

The  second  time  he  saw  Grant  is  very  different  from 
that  of  the  first  meeting  in  front  of  Donelson.  He  had 
been  given  a  message  to  deliver;  he  had  his  passport — 

168 


THE    PHILLIPSES 

the  bundle  of  Richmond  papers — and  he  had  his  disguise — 
his  fair  skin  and  the  face  of  a  child,  hardened  and  sharp 
ened,  keener  than  that  of  the  boy  of  three  years  ago; 
and  he  had  his  unbounded  self-assurance,  and  so  (not  the 
only  newsboy,  you  must  remember)  he  passed  through  the 
Confederate  army  to  the  outermost  picket-line.  There 
was  no  fighting  just  then;  the  armies  lay  within  half- 
musket-shot,  watching  each  other,  cat-and-mouse  fashion, 
with  their  picket  eyes. 

''Mister,"  he  said,  with  his  broadest  Southern  drawl, 
''let  me  go  and  sell  my  papers  to  the  Yanks  over  yonder." 

"Bring  us  back  some  Yankee  papers  and  y*  kin  go," 
they  bargained. 

But  within  the  Union  lines  something  for  once  went 
wrong.  He  was  arrested  and  locked  up  until  they  could 
overhaul  his  story.  He  "played  baby" — whined  and 
begged — but  they  would  not  let  him  go;  then,  as  a  last 
resort,  "Corporal  of  the  guard,"  he  bawled,  "take  me  to 
General  Grant.  He  won't  let  you  keep  me  in  the  guard 
house."  At  last  an  officer  was  called,  and  he  must  have 
reported  to  the  General.  Grant  sent  for  him.  The  offi 
cer  led  the  way  to  the  tent,  saluting.  "Here  is  that  boy, 
General."  Charlie  Phillips,  barefooted,  coatless,  his 
torn  trousers  held  up  by  one  suspender,  stood  unabashed 
before  the  general-in-chief  of  the  Union  armies.  In  the 
tent  were  half  a  dozen  officers. 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  alone  for  a  couple  of  minutes, 
General,"  the  boy  boldly  said. 

Grant  turned  to  his  officers:  "Retire,  please,  gentle 
men."  When  they  had  gone  the  boy  fumbled  at  one  of 
the  many  rips  in  his  trousers  and  drew  out  a  small  wad 
of  paper  which  he  handed  without  a  word  to  Grant, 

169 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

who  read  it,  then  stood  looking  thoughtfully  at  the  mes 
senger. 

11  Where  did  you  get  this?"  he  asked,  impassively.  To 
the  boy's  answer  his  rejoinder  was  another  question: 
"How  did  you  come  through  the  lines?"  Then:  "How 
are  you  going  back?"  That  was  all;  no  comments,  only 
questions;  for  commendation,  only  a  quick,  pleased  nod 
that  thrilled  the  boy  as  no  outpouring  of  words  could  have 
done. 

General  Grant  went  to  the  tent  door  and  beckoned  to 
the  waiting  officer.  "This  boy  is  doing  no  harm,"  he 
said,  mildly.  "Let  him  sell  his  papers  in  the  camp." 

As  he  walked  exultantly  away  the  boy  glanced  back  for 
one  more  look  at  the  tent  where  he  and  Grant  had  talked 
together.  The  General  was  still  standing  in  the  tent  door, 
still  smoking  and  biting  on  the  short,  thick  cigar,  still 
thoughtfully  watching  him.  Did  Grant  remember  their 
other  meeting?  Charlie  Phillips  says  that  he  has  won 
dered  about  that  from  then  till  now.  "Maybe  yes, 
maybe  no,  but  I've  always  thought  he  did." 

"The  next  thing  that  I  mind — after  Grant  and  I  had 
our  little  visit  together,"  says  Charlie  Phillips,  "was  the 
time  I  stole  old  Dill's  horse,  and  killed  it,  an'  blame  near 
got  killed  m'self."  On  this  occasion  another  despatch 
was  to  be  delivered,  not  to  General  Grant  in  person  this 
time,  but  just  to  the  Union  army.  There  were  no  in 
structions  except  to  get  it  there.  For  some  reason  he 
did  not  use  the  way  of  openly  passing  the  pickets  by  the 
newsboy  dodge.  Instead,  he  headed  for  the  Federal 
army  and  tramped  out  of  Richmond  by  the  shortest  road. 
In  a  field  by  the  roadside  a  pastured  horse  put  its  head 
over  the  fence  and  whinnied  to  him;  he  recognized  it  as 

170 


THE    PHILLIPSES 

"old  Dill's — the  government  hardtack  baker's  horse- 
one  of  the  best  horses  left  in  Richmond."  Perhaps  some 
devil  of  recklessness  seized  him,  perhaps  a  too  strong 
desire  to  be  mounted  on  that  glossy  back  and  to  feel 
beneath  him  the  bird-like  glide  of  a  thoroughbred.  He 
whistled  softly,  and  the  horse  neighed  an  answer.  He 
says  it  seemed  to  say  to  him,  "Steal  me,  Charlie,  steal 
me !"  Tempted  and  slowly  yielding,  he  climbed  the  fence. 
The  moment  he  was  mounted  the  horse  stole  him;  they 
were  over  the  fence  and  going  like  mad  down  the  road 
before  he  had  made  up  his  mind  or  realized  what  had 
happened. 

He  rode  at  an  easy  gallop  cross  country  until  he  reached 
the  point  where  he  believed  that  he  had  passed,  by  blind 
luck,  between  the  guards  and  patrols  and  pickets,  out  of 
the  Confederate  lines,  and  into  the  no-man's  land  between 
the  two  armies.  Then  came  a  sudden  shout  from  a  little 
patch  of  woodland  which  he  had  just  skirted,  and  without 
looking  back  he  began  to  ride  for  his  life.  By  the  time 
the  vedettes  had  mounted  he  had  gained  the  start  which 
saved  him.  His  only  fear,  he  says,  was  that  in  some  way 
his  father  would  learn  of  his  folly.  He  was  riding  the  bet 
ter  horse,  and  his  slight  weight  was  as  nothing  compared 
with  that  borne  by  the  cavalry  horses.  He  began  to 
draw  away  from  them  rapidly.  One  after  another  of  his 
pursuers  fired  at  him,  and  their  shots  told  that  they  had 
almost  given  up  hope  of  taking  him.  He  was  looking 
back  over  his  shoulder  when  the  end  came,  and  never 
saw  the  gully  at  all.  He  had  an  instant's  sensation  of 
flying,  of  a  terrible  jar,  then  of  being  whirled  end  over 
end.  He  had  staggered  to  his  feet  and  had  instinctively 
commenced  to  run  before  he  comprehended  that  his  horse 

171 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

had  fallen  short  in  its  leap  and  had  struck  with  its  fore 
legs,  breaking  both  of  them  against  the  gully's  edge. 
He  heard  the  yells  of  the  cavalrymen  and  a  sputter  of 
pistol-shots,  but  that  from  which  he  tried  to  flee  was  the 
sound  of  his  wounded  horse's  screams.  It  was  a  long 
run  to  the  strip  of  woods  toward  which  he  had  intuitively 
headed,  but  he  was  almost  there  before  the  Confederates 
could  cross  the  gully  and  resume  the  chase.  By  the  time 
they  reached  the  wood  he  was  in  a  tree-top  safely  hidden. 
Twilight  was  nearly  done.  He  could  hear  the  clanking 
of  the  cavalrymen's  sabers  as  they  stamped  about  beat 
ing  the  undergrowth  for  him.  When  it  was  quite  dark 
they  went  away,  and  he  climbed  stiffly  down  and  pushed 
on  for  the  Union  lines,  still  grieving  for  his  horse. 

The  war  wrought  horrors  upon  the  bodies  of  children 
who  fought  in  it,  but  there  was  not  one  who  escaped  un 
scathed  of  body  that  was  not  the  greater  maimed  by  the 
callousing  of  heart  and  mind.  Charlie  Phillips  before 
he  was  seventeen  had  killed  two  men,  not  in  battle  as  a 
soldier  kills  impersonally  and  at  long  range,  but  face  to 
face,  almost  within  arm's  reach;  and  he  gave  to  their 
deaths  no  heed.  One,  the  ghoul,  he  killed  in  a  frenzy 
that  lifted  him  out  of  himself;  the  other  he  killed  coldly, 
deliberately,  because  the  man  living  menaced  him,  but, 
dead,  was  safely  out  of  his  way.  Justifiable  both,  and 
to  his  war-scarred  mind  instantly  and  forever  justified. 

Scores  of  negroes  aided  Charlie  Phillips  during  the  war; 
fed  him,  sheltered  him,  gave  him  information  and  warn 
ings,  guided  him;  few  of  them  did  he  ever  see  again;  but 
the  only  negro  whom  he  could  not  trust  was  sent  across 
his  path  time  after  time.  The  other  negroes  all  were 
secretly  for  the  North  and  freedom;  this  man  was  for  the 

172 


THE    PHILLIPSES 

South  and  his  master — "the  only  secesh  nigger,"  Charlie 
Phillips  says,  that  he  ever  knew.  The  man  was  branded 
by  his  own  race ;  negroes  who  had  never  seen  him  knew  of 
him  and  grew  silent  and  ill  at  ease  at  his  approach ;  they 
warned  the  boy  that  here  was  one  negro  who  would  do 
him  harm.  The  man  was  a  Confederate  officer's  body- 
servant,  a  swaggering  fellow,  a  mulatto  with  arrogant 
eyes  and  a  sneering  face.  At  each  chance  meeting  the 
man's  suspicions  and  the  boy's  fears  grew. 

There  came  an  evening  in  late  summer  when  the  boy 
was  stealing  out  of  the  city  on  secret  service;  he  had  left 
the  town  some  distance  behind  him  and  was  walking 
swiftly  along  one  of  the  back  or  little-traveled  roads. 
Something  had  prompted  him  to  carry  a  revolver,  which 
he  seldom  dared  to  do,  since  it  was  not  in  keeping  with  his 
part. 

He  recognized  the  negro  almost  at  the  moment  that  he 
saw  him  coming  across  the  fields ;  their  converging  courses 
would  bring  them  face  to  face.  It  was  not  yet  dark,  and 
the  dying  light  in  the  west  shone  full  upon  the  negro. 
Something  of  a  dandy  he  was,  in  his  cavalry  boots  and 
parts  of  cast-off  uniforms ;  perhaps  he  was  coming  on  leave 
into  Richmond,  courting;  perhaps  merely  on  an  errand 
for  his  master.  The  field  sloped  up  to  the  road,  fringed 
with  sumacs  and  alders ;  as  the  man  mounted  the  rise  the 
boy  on  the  road  was  but  a  few  yards  from  him.  Without 
a  word  having  been  spoken,  Charlie  Phillips  drew  the 
cocked  revolver  from  under  his  jacket  and  shot  the  man 
between  the  eyes;  the  body  pitched  face  down  into  the 
bushes.  The  boy  gave  a  quick  look  around,  then  threw 
the  revolver  from  him  as  far  as  he  could  throw.  Then 
he  ran  a  few  rods  and  crawled  into  the  bushes  and  lay 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

there,  breathing  quickly,  for  a  long  time;  when  it  was 
quite  dark  he  went  on  upon  his  mission. 

"Tell  father  of  it?  No,  I  didn't— why  should  I? 
It  was  my  business — I  knew  I  had  to  kill  the  fellow." 

There  is  one  story  that  is  mere  fragments.  It  would 
take  a  cement  of  the  forbidden  fiction  to  join  them  to 
gether.  These  are  the  fragments:  A  despatch  was  to 
be  delivered  to  the  Federals  north  of  the  Rappahannock, 
several  days'  journey  from  Richmond.  Charlie  remem 
bers  stopping  for  food  and  shelter  at  a  house  in  Caroline 
County,  and  being  taken  in  and  fed  and  given  a  chance 
to  dry  his  clothes,  for  it  was  sleeting.  Not  many  months 
later  another  traveler,  a  fugitive,  John  Wilkes  Booth,  was 
to  seek  at  this  same  Garrett  farm  a  vain  shelter.  After 
the  boy  got  warm  and  dry  he  pushed  on.  He  crossed  the 
Rappahannock,  for  he  remembers  sculling  a  boat  through 
the  floating  ice;  and  that  night  or  the  next — he  does  not 
remember — he  came  to  the  end  of  his  journey,  but  not 
to  his  destination. 

"Lord,  Lord,"  he  says,  "what  a  night! — as  bright  as 
day  it  was,  and  cold,  cold!  There  was  a  crust  on  the  snow, 
and  the  fields  made  better  traveling  than  the  roads,  and 
so  I  was  going  cross  country  when  two  men  jumped  out 
from  behind  a  tree.  They  said,  'Hands  up!' — like  rob 
bers — not  'Halt!' — like  soldiers  would — and  I  hands 
upped."  But  he  was  able  to  get  the  little  wad  of  de 
spatch  into  his  mouth,  and  he  swallowed  it.  So  all  that 
they  got  was  money.  He  had  in  his  pocket  a  good  big 
roll  of  Confederate  bank-notes — mighty  little  good  those 
days! — and,  sewed  in  the  lining  of  his  vest,  a  roll  of 
Federal  Secret-Service  money,  greenbacks. 

They  found  this,  too,  and  were  about  to  rip  it  out,  but 


THE    PHILLIPSES 

he  pretended  he  was  afraid  that  they  would  cut  him, 
and  he  was  such  a  little  chap  and  so  terrified  that,  with 
unwise  kindness,  they  let  him  wield  the  knife  himself, 
and  he  managed  to  slash  the  greenbacks  into  bits.  They 
were  going  to  hang  him  for  that,  but  instead  they  marched 
him  to  a  farm  and  locked  him  into  an  outbuilding.  There 
are  only  two  more  fragments  of  the  story  left  in  his 
memory:  one,  that  he  escaped,  and  another  that  he  made 
his  way  back  (for,  since  his  despatch  was  gone,  there  was 
no  use  to  go  farther)  to  the  house  of  a  "sympathizer,"  a 
Unionist,  where  he  had  stopped  by  instruction  on  the  way 
out.  There  they  told  him  that  he  must  have  been 
captured  by  Mosby's  men,  and  was  lucky  to  be  able  to 
tell  of  it. 

And  then  at  last  (at  the  very  last,  for  it  was  in  January, 
'65)  the  Confederates  got  him,  but  not  red-handed  in  a 
hanging  matter.  Many  people  in  Richmond  had  tired 
of  starving;  also  the  spring  campaign  was  coming,  and 
conscription  would  be  harder  to  escape  than  ever.  Every 
man  who  left  Richmond,  especially  if  he  were  a  skilled 
workman,  weakened  the  Confederacy,  already  hard 
pressed  to  fill  such  places.  It  became  the  duty  of  the 
Secret  Service  agents  to  make  up  and  pilot  parties  of 
malcontents  into  the  nearest  Federal  army.  It  was  in 
this  work  that  Charlie  Phillips  was  taken.  A  party  of 
nineteen  mechanics  had  been  formed,  and  the  boy  and  two 
others  of  the  service  were  to  lead  them.  The  story  is 
hardly  worth  the  telling:  there  was  no  resistance,  only  a 
tumult  of  cries  and  a  wild  scramble  when  they  found 
themselves  surrounded  by  detectives  and  soldiers.  One 
man  broke  away  and  escaped — probably  the  stool-pigeon 
who  had  baited  the  trap  for  them.  Then  it  was  just 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

Castle  Thunder,  days  of  fretting  and  of  waiting,  days  of 
being  a  prisoner,  with  all  that  that  meant  during  the 
Rebellion. 

The  boy  made  desperate  plans  for  escape,  plans  which 
might  have  succeeded  had  it  not  been  for  the  dog  Nero, 
the  bloodhound  of  Castle  Thunder.  With  that  dog 
there — and  he  was  always  there — no  escapes  were  even 
attempted.  Months  afterward,  back  in  New  York  City, 
the  boy  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  Nero,  now  fallen 
— or  risen? — to  be  star  exhibit  in  P.  T.  Barnum's  old 
museum  on  Ann  Street. 

But,  after  all,  there  was  but  a  month  of  prison  for 
Charlie  Phillips,  and  then  came  a  parole  and  freedom,  a 
freer  freedom  than  the  laws  of  parole  ever  sanctioned. 
For  a  time  he  was  compelled  to  report  each  day  at  noon. 
It  was  too  hampering.  He  petitioned  to  be  allowed  to 
report  but  once  a  week.  His  business — his  business!— 
was  being  ruined  by  this  daily  restriction.  Once  a  week 
would  do,  they  told  him.  When  one  is  a  spy  the  violation 
of  a  parole  is  a  small  matter — one  can  be  hanged  only 
once,  anyway,  so  Charlie  Phillips  each  day  "cut  a  notch" 
in  a  meaningless  piece  of  paper.  Before  he  had  redeemed 
it  Richmond  had  fallen. 

With  the  Federal  occupation  there  was  at  once  govern 
ment  employment  for  the  Phillipses  in  the  post  quarter 
master's  department,  work  which  to  Charlie  was  a 
sharp  and  sudden  contrast  to  the  days  of  Secret  Service 
—work  that  gave  abundant  promise  of  fast  becoming 
routine,  and  that,  too,  while  there  still  was  fighting, 
desperate  fighting,  to  the  west  of  Richmond.  He  had 
"gone  everywhere  on  God's  footstool  for  others,"  now 
just  this  once  let  him  go  somewhere  for  himself!  He 

176 


THE    PHILL1PSES 

"borrowed  a  horse  from  'Uncle  Samuel,'"  and  rode 
off  to  his  holiday.  For  the  last  time  he  would  see  a 
battle! 

He  was  hunting  for  it  when  he  slowly  rode  into  the 
little  town  of  Appomattox;  he  had  come  too  late  for 
battles.  He  saw  General  Grant  and  a  large  party  of 
officers  ride  up  to  one  of  the  houses  and  enter.  Scarce 
knowing  why,  he  lingered.  The  front  yard  and  the  road 
way  were  rilled  with  horses  held  by  orderlies.  "Gen'ral 
Lee's  in  there!"  they  told  him.  Some  of  the  citizens  of 
the  town  had  come  over  to  see  what  was  going  on.  One 
or  two  of  the  bolder,  perhaps  friends  of  Wilmer  McLean, 
the  house-owner,  went  up  on  the  porch,  and  then,  the 
front  door  standing  invitingly  open,  entered  the  hall 
and  peeped  into  the  room  which  that  day  became  his 
toric.  Charlie  Phillips  followed.  He  saw  a  small  room 
crowded  with  officers ;  he  saw  General  Grant  seated  at  one 
table,  at  another  General  Lee.  An  officer  to  whom  he 
had  once  carried  a  message  recognized  him  and  nodded. 
In  his  excitement  the  boy  scarcely  saw  him.  It  is  one 
of  his  most  poignant  regrets  that  he  could  never  remem 
ber  which  officer  had  nodded  to  him.  He  dared  take  but 
one  hurried  look  about  the  room,  then  tiptoed  out  into  the 
yard  again  and  waited.  After  a  long  time  General  Lee 
and  another  gray-clad  officer  came  out,  followed  by  the 
Federals.  The  boy  watched  them  ride  away.  It  was 
over!  He  turned  his  own  horse  toward  Richmond  and 
rode,  now  sober,  now  exultant. 

It  was  late  the  next  day  when  he  reached  the  post 

quartermaster's    office.     He    scarcely   knew   his   father, 

who    stood   with    a    young   Federal   lieutenant,    talking 

and  laughing  like  a  man  suddenly  grown  years  young- 

12  177 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

er.  His  father's  greeting  was  as  though  to  a  com 
rade. 

" Where  you  been,  Charlie?"  and  then,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  "Did  you  know  about  Lee's  surrender?" 
The  boy's  rejoinder  is  the  epitome  of  his  service: 

"Sure!"  he  said.     "I  was  there.     I  saw  it." 


MRS.   GREENHOW 

THESE  pages  record  the  story  of  the  woman  who  cast 
a  pebble  into  the  sea  of  circumstance — a  pebble  from 
whose  widening  ripples  there  rose  a  mighty  wave,  on 
whose  crest  the  Confederate  States  of  America  were 
borne  through  four  years  of  civil  war. 

Rose  O'Neal  Greenhow  gave  to  General  Beauregard 
information  which  enabled  him  to  concentrate  the  widely 
scattered  Confederate  forces  in  time  to  meet  McDowell 
on  the  field  of  Manassas,  and  there,  with  General  Johnson, 
to  win  for  the  South  the  all -import ant  battle  of  Bull 
Run. 

Mrs.  Greenhow 's  cipher  despatch — nine  words  on  a 
scrap  of  paper — set  in  motion  the  reinforcements  which 
arrived  at  the  height  of  the  battle  and  turned  it  against 
the  North.  But  for  the  part  she  played  in  the  Confed 
erate  victory  Rose  O'Neal  Greenhow  paid  a  heavy  price. 

During  the  Buchanan  administration  Mrs.  Greenhow 
was  one  of  the  leaders  of  Washington  society.  She  was  a 
Southerner  by  birth,  but  a  resident  of  Washington  from 
her  girlhood;  a  widow,  beautiful,  accomplished,  wealthy, 
and  noted  for  her  wit  and  her  forceful  personality.  Her 
home  was  the  rendezvous  of  those  prominent  in  official  life 
in  Washington — the  "court  circle,"  had  America  been  a 
monarchy.  She  was  personally  acquainted  with  all  the 
leading  men  of  the  country,  many  of  whom  had  partaken 

179 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

of  her  hospitality.  President  Buchanan  was  a  close 
personal  friend;  a  friend,  too,  was  William  H.  Seward,  then 
Senator  from  New  York;  her  niece,  a  granddaughter  of 
Dolly  Madison,  was  the  wife  of  Stephen  A.  Douglas.  It 
was  in  such  company  that  she  watched  with  burning  in 
terest  the  war-clouds  grow  and  darken  over  Charleston 
Harbor,  then  burst  into  the  four  years'  storm;  she  never 
saw  it  end. 

Among  her  guests  at  this  time  was  Colonel  Thomas 
Jordan,  who,  before  leaving  Washington  to  accept  the 
appointment  of  Adjutant-General  of  the  Confederate 
army  at  Manassas,  broached  to  Mrs.  Greenhow  the  sub 
ject  of  a  secret  military  correspondence.  What  would 
she  do  to  aid  the  Confederacy?  he  asked  her.  Ah,  what 
would  she  not  do!  Then  he  told  her  how  some  one  in 
Washington  was  needed  by  the  South;  of  the  importance 
of  the  work  which  might  be  done,  and  her  own  special 
fitness  for  the  task.  And  that  night  before  he  left  the 
house  he  gave  her  a  cipher  code,  and  arranged  that  her 
despatches  to  him  were  to  be  addressed  to  '  *  Thomas  John 
Rayford." 

And  so  he  crossed  the  river  into  Virginia  and  left  her, 
in  the  Federal  capital,  armed  with  the  glittering  shield, 
"Justified  by  military  necessity,"  and  the  two-edged 
sword,  "All's  fair  in  love  and  war" — left  her,  his  agent, 
to  gather  in  her  own  way  information  from  the  enemy, 
her  former  friends,  where  and  from  whom  she  would. 

It  was  in  April,  '61,  that  she  took  up  her  work;  in 
November,  Allan  Pinkerton,  head  of  the  Federal  Secret 
Service,  made  to  the  War  Department  a  report  in  which 
he  said — in  the  vehement  language  of  a  partisanship  as 
intense  as  Mrs.  Greenhow's  own : 

180 


MRS.    GREEXHOW   AND    HER    DAUGHTER 
From  a  war-time  photograph 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

It  was  a  fact  too  notorious  to  need  reciting  here,  that  for  months  .  .  . 
Mrs.  Greenhow  was  actively  and  to  a  great  extent  openly  engaged  in 
giving  aid  and  comfort,  sympathy  and  information;  .  .  .  her  house  was 
the  rendezvous  for  the  most  violent  enemies  of  the  government,  .  .  . 
where  they  were  furnished  with  every  possible  information  to  be  ob 
tained  by  the  untiring  energies  of  this  very  remarkable  woman;  .  .  . 
that  since  the  commencement  of  this  rebellion  this  woman,  from  her 
long  residence  at  the  capital,  her  superior  education,  her  uncommon 
social  powers,  her  very  extensive  acquaintance  among,  and  her  active 
association  with,  the  leading  politicians  of  this  nation,  has  possessed 
an  almost  superhuman  power,  all  of  which  she  has  most  wickedly  used 
to  destroy  the  government.  .  .  .  She  has  made  use  of  whoever  and 
whatever  she  could  as  mediums  to  carry  into  effect  her  unholy  pur 
poses.  .  . .  She  has  not  used  her  powers  in  vain  among  the  officers  of  the 
army,  not  a  few  of  whom  he  has  robbed  of  patriotic  hearts  and  trans 
formed  them  into  sympathizers  with  the  enemies  of  the  country.  .  .  . 
She  had  her  secret  and  insidious  agents  in  all  parts  of  this  city  and 
scattered  over  a  large  extent  of  country.  .  .  .  She  had  alphabets,  num 
bers,  ciphers,  and  various  other  not  mentioned  ways  of  holding  inter 
course.  .  .  .  Statistical  facts  were  thus  obtained  and  forwarded  that 
could  have  been  found  nowhere  but  in  the  national  archives,  thus 
leading  me  to  the  conclusion  that  such  evidence  must  have  been  ob 
tained  from  employees  and  agents  in  the  various  departments  of  the 
government. 

Thus  she  worked  throughout  the  opening  days  of  the 
war.  Washington  lay  ringed  about  with  camps  of  new- 
formed  regiments,  drilling  feverishly.  Already  the  press 
and  public  had  raised  the  cry,  '  *  On  to  Richmond !"  When 
would  they  start?  Where  would  they  first  strike?  It 
was  on  those  two  points  that  the  Confederate  plan  of 
campaign  hinged.  It  was  Mrs.  Greenhow  who  gave 
the  information.  To  General  Beauregard  at  Manassas, 
where  he  anxiously  awaited  tidings  of  the  Federal  advance, 
there  came  about  the  loth  of  July  the  first  message  from 
Mrs.  Greenhow.  The  message  told  of  the  intended  ad 
vance  of  the  enemy  across  the  Potomac  and  on  to  Manassas 
via  Fairfax  Court-house  and  Centreville.  It  was  brought 

181 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

into  the  Confederate  lines  by  a  young  lady  of  Washington, 
Miss  Duval,  who,  disguised  as  a  market-girl,  carried  the 
message  to  a  house  near  Fairfax  Court-house,  occupied 
by  the  wife  and  daughters  (Southern  born)  of  an  officer 
in  the  Federal  army.  General  Beauregard  at  once  com 
menced  his  preparations  for  receiving  the  attack,  and  sent 
one  of  his  aides  to  President  Davis  to  communicate  the 
information  and  to  urge  the  immediate  concentration 
of  the  scattered  Confederate  forces. 

But  still  the  Federal  start  was  delayed,  and  the  precise 
date  was  as  indefinite  as  ever.  It  was  during  this  period 
of  uncertainty  that  G.  Donellan,  who,  before  joining  the 
Confederates,  had  been  a  clerk  in  the  Department  of  the 
Interior,  volunteered  to  return  to  Washington  for  informa 
tion.  He  was  armed  with  the  two  words  " Trust  Bearer" 
in  Colonel  Jordan's  cipher,  and  was  sent  across  the 
Potomac  with  instructions  to  report  to  Mrs.  Greenhow. 
He  arrived  at  the  very  moment  that  she  most  needed  a 
messenger.  Hastily  writing  in  cipher  her  all-important 
despatch,  "Order  issued  for  McDowell  to  move  on 
Manassas  to-night,"  she  gave  it  to  Donellan,  who  was 
taken  by  her  agents  in  a  buggy,  with  relays  of  horses, 
down  the  eastern  shore  of  the  Potomac  to  a  ferry  near 
Dumfries,  where  he  was  ferried  across.  Cavalry  couriers 
delivered  the  despatch  into  General  Beauregard 's  hands 
that  night,  July  i6th. 

And  the  source  of  Mrs.  Greenhow's  information?  She 
has  made  the  statement  that  she  "received  a  copy  of  the 
order  to  McDowell"  Allan  Pinkerton  was  not  wrong 
when  he  said  that  she  "had  not  used  her  powers  in  vain 
among  the  officers  of  the  army." 

At  midday  of  the  i  yth  there  came  Colonel  Jordan's  reply : 

182 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

Yours  was  received  at  eight  o'clock  at  night.  Let  them  come; 
we  are  ready  for  them.  We  rely  upon  you  for  precise  information. 
Be  particular  as  to  description  and  destination  of  forces,  quantity  of 
artillery,  etc. 

She  was  ready  with  fresh  information,  and  the  messenger 
was  sent  back  with  the  news  that  the  Federals  intended  to 
cut  the  Manassas  Gap  Railroad  to  prevent  Johnson,  at 
Winchester,  from  reinforcing  Beauregard.  After  that 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  await  the  result  of  the 
inevitable  battle.  She  had  done  her  best.  What  that 
best  was  worth  she  learned  when  she  received  from 
Colonel  Jordan  the  treasured  message: 

Our  President  and  our  General  direct  me  to  thank  you.  We  rely 
upon  you  for  further  information.  The  Confederacy  owes  you  a 
debt. 

When  the  details  of  the  battle  became  known,  and  she 
learned  how  the  last  of  Johnson's  8,500  men  (marched  to 
General  Beauregard's  aid  because  of  her  despatches)  had 
arrived  at  three  o'clock  on  the  day  of  the  battle  and  had 
turned  the  wavering  Federal  army  into  a  mob  of  panic- 
stricken  fugitives,  she  felt  that  the  "Confederacy  owed 
her  a  debt,"  indeed. 

In  the  days  immediately  following  Bull  Run  it  seemed 
to  the  Confederate  sympathizers  in  the  city  that  their 
victorious  army  had  only  to  march  into  Washington  to 
take  it.  "Everything  about  the  national  Capitol  be 
tokened  the  panic  of  the  Administration,"  Mrs.  Greenhow 
wrote.  "Preparations  were  made  for  the  expected  at 
tack,  and  signals  were  arranged  to  give  the  alarm.  .  .  . 
I  went  round  with  the  principal  officer  in  charge  of  this 
duty,  and  took  advantage  of  the  situation.  .  .  .  Our 
gallant  Beauregard  would  have  found  himself  right  ably 

183 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

seconded  by  the  rebels  in  Washington  had  he  deemed  it 
expedient  to  advance  on  the  city.  A  part  of  the  plan 
was  to  have  cut  the  telegraph-wires  connecting  the 
various  military  positions  with  the  War  Department,  to 
make  prisoners  of  McClellan  and  several  others,  thereby 
creating  still  greater  confusion  in  the  first  moments  of 
panic.  Measures  had  also  been  taken  to  spike  the  guns 
in  Fort  Corcoran,  Fort  Ellsworth,  and  other  important 
points,  accurate  drawings  of  which  had  been  furnished 
to  our  commanding  officer  by  me."  Doubtless  it  was 
these  same  drawings  concerning  which  the  New  York 
Herald  commented  editorially  a  month  later: 

.  .  .  We  have  in  this  little  matter  [Mrs.  Greenhow's  arrest]  a  clue 
to  the  mystery  of  those  important  government  maps  and  plans  which 
the  rebels  lately  left  behind  them  in  their  hasty  flight  from  Fairfax 
Court-house,  .  .  .  and  we  are  at  liberty  to  guess  how  Beauregard  was  so 
minutely  informed  of  this  advance,  and  of  our  plan  of  attack  on 
his  lines,  as  to  be  ready  to  meet  it  at  every  salient  point  with  over 
whelming  numbers. 

Poor  Mrs.  Greenhow — from  the  very  first  doomed  to 
disaster.  Her  maps  and  plans  (if  these,  indeed,  were 
hers)  were  allowed  to  fall  into  the  enemy's  hands;  de 
spatches  were  sent  to  her  by  an  ill-chosen  messenger,  who, 
too  late,  was  discovered  to  be  a  spy  for  the  Federal  War 
Department;  her  very  cipher  code,  given  her  by  Colonel 
Jordan,  proved  to  be  an  amateurish  affair  that  was  readily 
deciphered  by  the  Federal  War  Office. 

She  never  had  a  chance  to  escape  detection.  Concern 
ing  the  cipher,  Colonel  Jordan  wrote  to  Confederate  Sec 
retary  of  War  Judah  P.  Benjamin,  October,  '61  (the  letter 
was  found  in  the  archives  of  Richmond  four  years  later) : 
4 'This  cipher  I  arranged  last  April.  Being  my  first  at- 

184 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

tempt  and  hastily  devised,  it  may  be  deciphered  by  any 
expert,  as  I  found  after  use  of  it  for  a  time.  .  .  .  That 
does  not  matter,  as  of  course  I  used  it  with  but  the  lady, 
and  with  her  it  has  served  our  purpose.  ..."  It  had, 
indeed,  served  their  purpose,  but  in  serving  it  had  brought 
imprisonment  and  ruin  to  the  woman. 

When  the  War  Department  began  to  shake  itself  free 
from  the  staggering  burden  placed  upon  it  by  the  rout 
at  Bull  Run,  almost  its  first  step  was  to  seek  out  the 
source  of  the  steady  and  swift-flowing  stream  of  informa 
tion  to  Richmond.  Suspicion  at  once  fell  upon  Mrs. 
Greenhow.  Many  expressed  their  secession  sentiments 
as  openly  as  did  she,  but  there  was  none  other  who  pos 
sessed  her  opportunities  for  obtaining  Federal  secrets. 
Federal  officers  and  officials  continued  their  pleasant 
social  relations  with  her,  and  she  was  believed  by  the  War 
Office  to  be  influencing  some  of  these.  Thomas  A.  Scott, 
Assistant  Secretary  of  War,  sent  for  Allan  Pinkerton 
and  instructed  him  to  place  Mrs.  Greenhow  under  sur 
veillance;  her  house  was  to  be  constantly  watched,  as 
well  as  all  visitors  from  the  moment  they  were  seen  to 
enter  or  to  leave  it,  and,  should  any  of  these  visitors  later 
attempt  to  go  South,  they  were  immediately  to  be  ar 
rested.  The  watch  on  the  house,  continued  for  some  days ; 
many  prominent  gentlemen  called — men  whose  loyalty 
was  above  question.  Then  on  the  night  of  August  22d, 
while  Pinkerton  and  several  of  his  men  watched  during 
a  hard  storm,  an  officer  of  the  Federal  army  entered  the 
house.  Pinkerton  removed  his  shoes  and  stood  on  the 
shoulders  of  one  of  his  men  that  he  might  watch  and 
listen  at  a  crack  in  the  shutters.  When  the  officer  left 
the  house  he  was  followed  by  Pinkerton  (still  in  his 

185 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

stocking  feet)  and  one  of  his  detectives.  Turning  sud 
denly,  the  officer  discovered  that  he  was  being  followed; 
he  broke  into  a  run,  and  the  three  of  them  raced  through 
the  deserted,  rain-swept  streets  straight  to  the  door  of 
a  station  of  the  Provost-Marshal. 

The  pursued  had  maintained  his  lead,  and  reached  the 
station  first;  he  was  its  commanding  officer,  and  instantly 
turned  out  the  guard.  Allan  Pinkerton  and  his  agent 
suddenly  found  that  the  quarry  had  bagged  the  hunters. 

The  angry  officer  refused  to  send  word  for  them  to 
Secretary  Scott,  to  General  McClellan,  to  the  Provost- 
Marshal — to  any  one !  He  clapped  them  into  the  guard 
house — "a  most  filthy  and  uncomfortable  place" — and 
left  them  there,  wet  and  bedraggled,  among  the  crowd 
of  drunken  soldiers  and  common  prisoners  of  the  streets. 
In  the  morning,  when  the  guard  was  relieved,  one  of 
them,  whom  Pinkerton  had  bribed,  carried  a  message 
to  Secretary  Scott,  by  whom  they  were  at  once  set  free. 
In  his  report  Allan  Pinkerton  says: 

.  .  .  The  officer  then  [immediately  after  Pinkerton  was  put  under 
arrest]  went  up-stairs  while  I  halted  and  looked  at  my  watch.  Said 
officer  returned  in  twenty  minutes  with  a  revolver  in  his  hand,  saying 
that  he  went  up-stairs  on  purpose  to  get  the  revolver.  The  inquiry 
arises,  was  it  for  that  purpose  he  stayed  thus,  or  for  the  more  probable 
one  of  hiding  or  destroying  the  evidence  of  his  guilt  obtained  of  Mrs. 
Greenhow  or  furnished  to  her?  .  .  . 

This  report  goes  no  further  into  the  charge,  but  that 
very  day,  August  23d,  within  a  few  hours  of  his  release, 
Allan  Pinkerton  placed  Mrs.  Greenhow  under  arrest  as  a 
spy. 

Of  the  events  of  that  fateful  Friday  Mrs.  Greenhow 
has  left  a  graphic  record,  complete  save  that  it  does  not 
tell  why  such  events  need  ever  have  been,  for  she  had 

186 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

been  warned  of  her  proposed  arrest — warned  in  ample 
time  at  least  to  have  attempted  an  escape.  The  message 
which  told  of  the  impending  blow  had  been  sent  to  her, 
Mrs.  Greenhow  tells,  by  a  lady  in  Georgetown,  to  whom 
one  of  General  McClellan's  aides  had  given  the  informa 
tion.  The  note  said  also  that  the  Hon.  William  Preston, 
Minister  to  Spain  until  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  was 
likewise  to  be  arrested.  To  him  Mrs.  Greenhow  passed 
on  the  warning,  and  he  safely  reached  the  Confederate 
army.  But  Mrs.  Greenhow — why  did  she  stay?  Did 
escape  seem  so  improbable  that  she  dared  not  run  the 
risk  of  indubitably  convicting  herself  by  an  attempted 
flight  ?  Did  she  underestimate  the  gravity  of  her  situation 
and  depend  upon  "influence"  to  save  her?  Or  was  it, 
after  all,  some  Casabianca-like  folly  of  remaining  at  her 
"post"  until  the  end?  Whatever  the  reason,  she  stayed. 
Day  after  day  she  waited  for  the  warning's  fulfilment. 
Though  waiting,  she  worked  on.  "  'Twas  very  exciting," 
she  told  a  friend  long  afterward.  "I  would  be  walking 
down  the  Avenue  with  one  of  the  officials,  military  or 
state,  and  aj  we  strolled  along  there  would  pass — perhaps 
a  washerwoman  carrying  home  her  basket  of  clean 
clothes,  or,  maybe,  a  gaily  attired  youth  from  lower 
Seventh  Avenue;  but  something  in  the  way  the  woman 
held  her  basket,  or  in  the  way  the  youth  twirled  his  cane, 
told  me  that  news  had  been  received,  or  that  news  was 
wanted — that  I  must  open  up  communications  in  some 
way.  Or  as  we  sat  in  some  city  park  a  sedate  old  gentle 
man  would  pass  by ;  to  my  unsuspecting  escort  the  passer 
by  was  but  commonplace,  but  to  me  his  manner  of  pol 
ishing  his  glasses  or  the  flourish  of  the  handkerchief 
with  which  he  rubbed  his  nose  was  a  message." 

187 


ON   HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

Days  full  of  anxious  forebodings  sped  by  until  the 
morning  of  August  23d  dawned,  oppressively  sultry  after 
the  night  of  rain  which  had  so  bedraggled  Allan  Pinkerton 
and  his  detective.  At  about  eleven  o'clock  that  morning 
Mrs.  Greenhow  was  returning  home  from  a  promenade 
with  a  distinguished  member  of  the  diplomatic  corps, 
but  for  whose  escort  she  believed  she  would  have  been 
arrested  sooner,  for  she  knew  she  was  being  followed. 
Excusing  herself  to  her  escort,  she  stopped  to  inquire 
for  the  sick  child  of  a  neighbor,  and  there  they  warned 
her  that  her  house  was  being  watched.  So,  then,  the 
time  had  come !  As  she  paused  at  her  neighbor's  door, 
perhaps  for  the  moment  a  trifle  irresolute,  one  of  her 
11  humble  agents"  chanced  to  be  coming  that  way;  farther 
down  the  street  two  men  were  watching  her;  she  knew 
their  mission. 

To  her  passing  agent  she  called,  softly:  "I  think  that  I 
am  about  to  be  arrested.  Watch  from  Corcoran's  corner. 
I  shall  raise  my  handkerchief  to  my  face  if  they  arrest  me. 
Give  information  of  it."  Then  she  slowly  crossed  the 
street  to  her  house.  She  had  several  important  papers 
with  her  that  morning;  one,  a  tiny  note,  she  put  into  her 
mouth  and  destroyed;  the  other,  a  letter  in  cipher,  she 
was  unable  to  get  from  her  pocket  without  being  observed; 
for  the  opportunity  to  destroy  it  she  must  trust  to  chance. 
As  she  mounted  the  short  flight  of  steps  to  her  door  the 
two  men — Allan  Pinkerton  and  his  operative,  who  had 
followed  her  rapidly — reached  the  foot  of  the  steps.  She 
turned  and  faced  them,  waiting  for  them  to  speak. 

''Is  this  Mrs.  Greenhow?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  coldly.  As  they  still  hesitated, 
she  asked,  "Who  are  you,  and  what  do  you  want?" 

188 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

"I  have  come  to  arrest  you,"  Pinkerton  answered, 
shortly. 

"By  what  authority?  Let  me  see  your  warrant,"  she 
demanded,  bravely  enough  except  for  what  seemed  a 
nervous  movement  of  the  fluttering  handkerchief.  To 
the  detectives,  if  they  noticed  it,  it  was  but  the  tremulous 
gesture  of  a  woman's  fright.  To  the  agent  lingering  at 
Corcoran's  corner  it  was  the  signal. 

"I  have  no  power  to  resist  you,"  she  said;  "but  had 
I  been  inside  of  my  house  I  would  have  killed  one  of 
you  before  I  had  submitted  to  this  illegal  process."  They 
followed  her  into  her  house  and  closed  the  door. 

"It  seemed  but  a  moment,"  she  tells,  "before  the 
house  became  filled  with  men,  and  an  indiscriminate 
search  commenced.  Men  rushed  with  frantic  haste  into 
my  chamber,  into  every  sanctuary.  Beds,  drawers,  ward 
robes,  soiled  linen — search  was  made  everywhere!  Even 
scraps  of  paper — children's  unlettered  scribblings — were 
seized  and  tortured  into  dangerous  correspondence  with 
the  enemy." 

It  was  a  very  hot  day.  She  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
change  her  dress,  and  permission  was  grudgingly  given 
her;  but  almost  immediately  a  detective  followed  to  her 
bedroom,  calling,  "Madam!  Madam!"  and  flung  open 
the  door.  She  barely  had  had  time  to  destroy  the  cipher 
note  that  was  in  her  pocket.  Very  shortly  afterward  a 
woman  detective  arrived,  and  "I  was  allowed  the  poor 
privilege  of  unfastening  my  own  garments,  which  one 
by  one  were  received  by  this  pseudo-woman  and  carefully 
examined." 

Though  wild  confusion  existed  within  the  house,  no 
sign  of  it  was  allowed  to  show  itself  from  without,  for 

189 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

the  house  was  now  a  trap,  baited  and  set;  behind  the 
doors  detectives  waited  to  seize  all  who,  ignorant  of  the 
fate  of  its  owner,  might  call.  Anxious  to  save  her  friends, 
and  fearful,  too,  lest  she  be  compromised  further  by 
papers  which  might  be  found  on  them  when  searched, 
Mrs.  Greenhow  sought  means  to  warn  them  away.  The 
frightened  servants  were  all  under  guard,  but  there  was 
one  member  of  the  household  whose  freedom  was  not 
yet  taken  from  her — Mrs.  Greenhow's  daughter,  Rose, 
a  child  of  eight.  It  is  her  letters  which  have  supplied 
many  of  the  details  for  this  story.  Of  that  day,  so  full 
of  terror  and  bewilderment,  the  memory  which  stands 
out  most  clear  to  her  is  that  of  climbing  a  tree  in  the 
garden  and  from  there  calling  to  all  the  passers-by: 
"Mother  has  been  arrested!  Mother  has  been  arrested!" 
until  the  detectives  in  the  house  heard  her,  and  angrily 
dragged  her,  weeping,  from  the  tree. 

But  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  the  "humble  agent"  who 
had  waited  at  Corcoran's  corner  for  the  handkerchief 
signal,  in  spite  of  the  sacrifice  of  little  Rose's  freedom, 
the  trap  that  day  was  sprung  many  times.  Miss  Mackall 
and  her  sister,  close  friends  of  Mrs.  Greenhow,  were  seized 
as  they  crossed  the  threshold,  and  searched  and  detained. 
Their  mother,  coming  to  find  her  daughters,  became 
with  them  a  prisoner.  A  negro  girl — a  former  servant — 
and  her  brother,  who  were  merely  passing  the  house, 
were  induced  to  enter  it,  and  for  hours  subjected  to  an 
inquisition. 

Night  came,  and  the  men  left  in  charge  grew  boisterous ; 
an  argument  started  among  them.  Mrs.  Greenhow  tells 
— with  keen  enjoyment — of  having  egged  on  the  dis 
putants,  pitting  nationality  against  nationality — Eng- 

190 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

lish,  German,  Irish,  Yankee — so  that  in  the  still  night 
their  loud,  angry  voices  might  serve  as  a  danger-signal 
to  her  friends.  But  the  dispute  died  out  at  last — too  soon 
to  save  two  gentlemen  who  called  late  that  evening,  a 
call  which  cost  them  months  of  imprisonment  on  the 
never-proved  charge  of  being  engaged  in  "contraband  and 
treasonable  correspondence  with  the  Confederates." 

Soon  after  midnight  there  came  the  brief  relaxing  of 
vigilance  for  which  Mrs.  Greenhow  had  watched  expec 
tantly  all  day.  She  had  taken  the  resolution  to  fire  the 
house  if  she  did  not  succeed  in  obtaining  certain  papers 
in  the  course  of  the  night,  for  she  had  no  hope  that  they 
would  escape  a  second  day's  search.  But  now  the  time 
for  making  the  attempt  had  come,  and  she  stole  noise 
lessly  into  the  dark  library.  From  the  topmost  shelf  she 
took  down  a  book,  between  whose  leaves  lay  the  coveted 
despatch ;  concealing  it  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  she  swiftly 
regained  her  room.  A  few  moments  later  the  guard  re 
turned  to  his  post  at  her  open  door. 

She  had  been  permitted  the  companionship  of  Miss 
Mackall,  and  now  as  the  two  women  reclined  on  the  bed 
they  planned  how  they  might  get  the  despatch  out  of 
the  house.  When  Mrs.  Greenhow  had  been  searched 
that  afternoon  her  shoes  and  stockings  had  not  been  ex 
amined,  and  so,  trusting  to  the  slim  chance  that  Miss 
Mackall's  would  likewise  escape  examination,  it  was  de 
termined  that  the  despatch  should  be  hidden  in  her 
stocking;  and  this — since  the  room  was  in  darkness  save 
for  the  faint  light  from  the  open  door,  and  the  bed  stood 
in  deep  shadow — was  accomplished  in  the  very  presence 
of  the  guard.  They  planned  that  should  Miss  Mackall, 
when  about  to  be  released,  have  reason  to  believe  she  was 

191 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

to  be  searched  carefully,  she  must  then  be  seized  with 
compunction  at  leaving  her  friend,  and  return. 

Between  three  and  four  o'clock  Saturday  morning 
those  friends  who  had  been  detained  were  permitted  to 
depart  (except  the  two  gentlemen,  who,  some  hours 
before,  had  been  taken  to  the  Provost  Marshal) ,  and  with 
Miss  Mackall  went  in  safety  the  despatch  for  whose 
destruction  Mrs.  Greenhow  would  have  burned  her  house. 

But  though  she  had  destroyed  or  saved  much  danger 
ous  correspondence,  there  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Fed 
eral  Secret  Service  much  more  of  her  correspondence,  by 
which  were  dragged  into  the  net  many  of  her  friends  and 
agents.  A  letter  in  cipher  addressed  to  Thomas  John 
Rayford  in  part  read: 

Your  three  last  despatches  I  never  got.  Those  by  Applegate  were 
betrayed  by  him  to  the  War  Department;  also  the  one  sent  by  our 
other  channel  was  destroyed  by  Van  Camp. 

Dr.  Aaron  Van  Camp,  charged  with  being  a  spy,  was 
arrested,  and  cast  into  the  Old  Capitol  Prison.  In  a 
stove  in  the  Greenhow  house  were  found,  and  pieced  to 
gether,  the  fragments  of  a  note  from  Donellan,  the  mes 
senger  who  had  carried  her  despatch  to  Beauregard 
before  Bull  Run.  The  note  introduced  "Colonel  Thomp 
son,  the  bearer,  .  .  .  [who]  will  be  happy  to  take  from 
your  hands  any  communications  and  obey  your  injunc 
tions  as  to  disposition  of  same  with  despatch."  The 
arrest  of  Colonel  Thompson,  as  of  Mrs.  Greenhow,  in 
volved  others;  it  was  all  like  a  house  of  cards — by  the 
arrest  of  Mrs.  Greenhow  the  whole  flimsy  structure  had 
been  brought  crashing  down. 

Of  the  days  which  followed  the  beginning  of  Mrs. 

192 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

Greenhow's  imprisonment  in  her  own  house,  few  were 
devoid  of  excitement  of  some  sort.  After  a  few  days 
Miss  Mackall  had  obtained  permission  to  return  and 
share  her  friend's  captivity.  It  was  she  who  fortunately 
found  and  destroyed  a  sheet  of  blotting-paper  which  bore 
the  perfect  imprint  of  the  Bull  Run  despatch!  The  de 
tectives  remained  in  charge  for  seven  days ;  they  examined 
every  book  in  the  library  leaf  by  leaf  (too  late !) ;  boxes 
containing  books,  china,  and  glass  that  had  been  packed 
away  for  months  were  likewise  minutely  examined. 
Portions  of  the  furniture  were  taken  apart;  pictures 
removed  from  their  frames;  beds  overturned  many  times. 

" Seemingly  I  was  treated  with  deference,"  Mrs. 
Greenhow  tells.  "Once  only  were  violent  hands  put 
upon  my  person — the  detective,  Captain  Denis,  having 
rudely  seized  me  to  prevent  me  giving  warning  to  a  lady 
and  gentleman  on  the  first  evening  of  my  arrest  (which 
I  succeeded  in  doing)."  She  was  permitted  to  be  alone 
scarcely  a  moment.  "If  I  wished  to  lie  down,  he  was 
seated  a  few  paces  from  my  bed.  If  I  desired  to  change 
my  dress,  it  was  obliged  to  be  done  with  open  doors.  .  .  . 
They  still  presumed  to  seat  themselves  at  table  with 
me,  with  unwashed  hands  and  shirt -sleeves."  Only  a  few 
months  before  this  the  President  of  the  United  States 
had  dined  frequently  at  that  very  table. 

Her  jailers  sought  to  be  bribed  to  carry  messages  for 
her — in  order  to  betray  her;  their  hands  were  ever  out 
stretched.  One  set  himself  the  pleasant  task  of  making 
love  to  her  maid,  Lizzie  Fitzgerald,  a  quick-witted  Irish 
girl,  who  entered  into  the  sport  of  sentimental  walks 
and  treats  at  Uncle  Sam's  expense — and,  of  course,  re 
vealed  nothing. 

13  193 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

On  Friday  morning,  August  3oth,  Mrs.  Greenhow  was 
informed  that  other  prisoners  were  to  be  brought  in,  and 
that  her  house  was  to  be  converted  into  a  prison.  A 
lieutenant  and  twenty-one  men  of  the  Sturgis  Rifles 
(General  McClellan's  body-guard)  were  now  placed  in 
charge  instead  of  the  detective  police.  The  house  began 
to  fill  with  other  prisoners — all  women.  The  once  quiet 
and  unpretentious  residence  at  No.  398  Sixteenth  Street 
became  known  as  'Tort  Greenhow,"  and  an  object  of 
intense  interest  to  the  crowds  that  came  to  stare  at  it— 
which  provoked  from  the  New  York  Times  the  caustic 
comment : 

Had  Madam  Greenhow  been  sent  South  immediately  after  her  ar 
rest,  as  we  recommended,  we  should  have  heard  no  more  of  the  heroic 
deeds  of  Secesh  women,  which  she  has  made  the  fashion. 

Had  the  gaping  crowds  known  what  the  harassed  sen 
tries  knew,  they  would  have  stared  with  better  cause. 
They  sought  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Greenhow  be 
cause  of  what  she  had  done;  the  guards'  chief  concern 
was  with  the  Mrs.  Greenhow  of  the  present  moment. 
For  during  the  entire  time  that  she  was  a  prisoner  in  her 
own  house  Mrs.  Greenhow  was  in  frequent  communica 
tion  with  the  South.  How  she  accomplished  the  seem 
ingly  impossible  will  never  be  fully  known. 

She  tells  of  information  being  conveyed  to  her  by  her 
"little  bird";  of  preparing  "those  peculiar,  square  de 
spatches  to  be  forwarded  to  our  great  and  good  President 
at  Richmond";  of  " tapestry- work  in  a  vocabulary  of 
colors,  which,  though  not  a  very  prolific  language,  served 
my  purpose";  and  she  gives,  as  an  example  of  many 
such,  "a  seemingly  innocent  letter,"  which  seems  inno- 

194 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

cent  indeed,  and  must  forever  remain  so,  since  she  does 
not  supply  the  key  whereby  its  hidden  meaning  may 
be  understood. 

Then  there  is  the  story  of  the  ball  of  pink  knitting- 
yarn,  a  story  which,  unlike  the  yarn  ball,  was  never  un 
wound  to  lay  its  innermost  secrets  bare. 

Among  those  prisoners  in  "Fort  Greenhow"  at  that 
time  were  the  wife  and  the  daughter  of  Judge  Philip  Phil 
lips.  Mere  suspicion  had  caused  their  imprisonment ;  "in 
fluence"  was  able  to  obtain  their  freedom,  but  not  able  to 
save  them  from  being  deported  from  Washington.  They 
were  released  from  "Fort  Greenhow"  and  given  three 
days  to  settle  their  affairs  and  prepare  to  be  escorted 
to  the  south  side  of  the  Potomac.  On  the  day  before 
they  were  to  be  sent  away  (she  who  was  Miss  Caroline 
Phillips  tells  the  story),  what  was  their  surprise  to  see 
Mrs.  Greenhow,  closely  guarded  on  either  side  by  Federal 
officers,  passing  their  residence.  To  the  still  greater  sur 
prise  of  Mrs.  Phillips,  who  stood  at  the  open  front  win 
dow,  Mrs.  Greenhow  suddenly  tossed  a  ball  of  pink 
worsted  in  at  the  window. 

"Here  is  your  yarn  that  you  left  at  my  house,  Mrs. 
Phillips,"  she  called;  then  passed  on,  laughing  and  chat 
ting  with  the  gullible  officers.  Mrs.  Phillips  knew  that 
she  had  left  no  yarn  at  "Fort  Greenhow."  She  and  her 
daughter  carefully  unwound  the  ball.  Four  days  later— 
in  spite  of  having  been  rigidly  searched  at  Fortress 
Monroe — Mrs.  Phillips  herself  placed  in  the  hand  of 
Jefferson  Davis  the  ball  of  pink  worsted's  contents — 
one  of  Mrs.  Greenhow's  cipher  despatches! 

By  such  means  she  was  able  to  outwit  her  many  guards 
— though  not  as  invariably  as  at  the  time  she  believed 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

that  she  had  done.  Allan  Pinker  ton  reports  to  the  War 
Department,  with  a  mixture  of  irritation  and  com 
placency  : 

She  has  not  ceased  to  lay  plans,  to  attempt  the  bribery  of  officers 
having  her  in  charge,  to  make  use  of  signs  from  the  windows  of  her 
house  to  her  friends  on  the  streets,  to  communicate  with  such  friends 
and  through  them  as  she  supposed  send  information  to  the  rebels  in 
ciphers  requiring  much  time  to  decipher — all  of  which  she  supposed 
she  was  doing  through  an  officer  who  had  her  in  charge  and  whom  she 
supposed  she  had  bribed  to  that  purpose,  but  who,  faithful  to  his 
trust,  laid  her  communications  before  yourself. 

But  Mrs.  Greenhow  evidently  made  use  of  other  chan 
nels  as  well,  for  the  copy  of  her  first  letter  to  Secretary 
Seward  safely  reached  the  hands  of  those  friends  to  whom 
it  was  addressed,  and  by  them  it  was  published  in  the 
newspapers,  North  and  South,  thereby  showing  to  all  the 
world  that  a  tendril  of  the  ''grape-vine  telegraph"  still 
reached  out  from  "Fort  Greenhow."  It  was  not  this 
alone  which  made  officialdom  and  the  public  gasp — it 
was  the  letter  itself.  In  tone  it  was  calm,  almost  dis 
passionate — a  masterly  letter.  The  blunt  Anglo-Saxon 
words  which  set  forth  in  detail  the  indignities  which  she 
suffered  from  the  unceasing  watch  kept  over  her  came  like 
so  many  blows.  She  pointed  out  that  her  arrest  had  been 
without  warrant;  that  her  house  and  all  its  contents  had 
been  seized ;  and  that  she  herself  had  been  held  a  prisoner 
more  than  three  months  without  a  trial,  and  that  she 
was  yet  ignorant  of  the  charge  against  her.  The  letter 
was  strong,  simple,  dignified,  but  it  brought  no  reply. 

The  heat  of  midsummer  had  passed  and  autumn  had 
come,  and  with  it  many  changes.  Miss  Mackall  was  one 
day  abruptly  taken  away  and  sent  to  her  own  home; 
the  two  friends  were  never  to  meet  again.  Other  pris- 

196 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

oners  were  freed  or  transferred  elsewhere,  and  yet  others 
came — among  them  a  Miss  Poole,  who  almost  immediately 
sought  to  curry  favor  by  reporting  that  little  Rose,  who 
for  some  time  had  been  allowed  to  play,  under  guard, 
on  the  pavement,  had  received  a  communication  for  her 
mother;  and  the  child  was  again  confined  within  the  four 
walls.  ''This  was  perhaps  my  hardest  trial — to  see  my 
little  one  pining  and  fading  under  my  eyes. for  want  of 
food  and  air.  The  health  and  spirits  of  my  faithful 
maid  also  began  to  fail."  The  attempt  of  several  of  the 
guard  to  communicate  information  was  likewise  reported 
by  Miss  Poole,  and  the  thumb-screws  of  discipline  were 
tightened  by  many  turns.  The  kindly  officer  of  the 
guard,  Lieutenant  Sheldon,  was  ordered  to  hold  no  per 
sonal  communication  with  Mrs.  Greenhow;  the  guards 
were  set  as  spies  upon  one  another  and  upon  him ;  they, 
too,  were  forbidden  under  severe  penalty  to  speak  to  her 
or  to  answer  her  questions.  An  order  was  issued  pro 
hibiting  her  from  purchasing  newspapers  or  being  in 
formed  of  their  contents.  At  times  it  seemed  as  though 
her  house,  and  she  in  it,  had  been  swallowed,  and  now 
lay  within  the  four  walls  of  a  Chillon  or  a  Chateau  d'lf ; 
it  was  added  bitterness  to  her  to  look  about  the  familiar 
room  and  remember  that  once  it  had  been  home! 

Miss  Mackall  had  been  making  ceaseless  efforts  to  be 
allowed  to  visit  her  friend,  but  permission  was  steadily 
denied.  Then  the  news  sifted  into  "Fort  Greenhow," 
and  reached  its  one-time  mistress,  that  Miss  Mackall 
was  ill,  desperately  ill;  for  the  first  time  Mrs.  Greenhow 
ceased  to  demand — she  pleaded  to  see  her  friend;  and 
failed.  Then  came  the  news  that  Miss  Mackall  was  dead. 

Among  those  friends  of  the  old  days  who  now  and  then 

197 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

were  allowed  to  call  was  Edwin  M.  Stanton,  not  yet 
Secretary  of  War.  Mrs.  Greenhow  endeavored  to  engage 
him  as  counsel  to  obtain  for  her  a  writ  of  habeas  corpus, 
but  he  declined. 

Friends — with  dubious  tact — smuggled  to  her  news 
paper  clippings  in  which  the  statement  was  made  that 
"Mrs.  Greenhow  had  lost  her  mind,"  and  that  "it  is 
rumored  that  the  government  is  about  to  remove  her  to 
a  private  lunatic  asylum."  "My  blood  freezes  even 
now,"  she  wrote,  "when  I  recall  my  feelings  at  the  re 
ception  of  this  communication,  and  I  wonder  that  I 
had  not  gone  mad."  When  the  Judge-Advocate,  making 
a  friendly,  "unofficial"  call,  asked,  "To  what  terms 
would  you  be  willing  to  subscribe  for  your  release?" 
she  replied,  with  unbroken  courage: 

"None,  sir!  I  demand  my  unconditional  release,  in 
demnity  for  losses,  and  the  restoration  of  my  papers  and 
effects." 

The  day  after  Christmas  Mrs.  Greenhow  wrote  two 
letters.  The  one,  in  cipher,  was  found  in  the  archives 
of  the  Confederate  War  Department  when  Richmond 
was  evacuated;  it  was  deciphered  and  published  in  the 
Official  Records : 

December  26th. 

In  a  day  or  two  1,200  cavalry  supported  by  four  batteries  of 
artillery  will  cross  the  river  above  to  get  behind  Manassas  and  cut  off 
railroad  and  other  communications  with  our  army  whilst  an  attack 
is  made  in  front.  For  God's  sake  heed  this.  It  is  positive.  .  .  . 

The  "grape-vine  telegraph-lines"  were  still  clear  both^ 
into  and  out  of  "Fort  Greenhow." 

The  other  was  a  second  letter  to  Secretary  Seward — 
a  very  different  sort  of  letter  from  the  first,  being  but  a 

198 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

tirade  on  the  ethics  of  the  Southern  cause,  purposeless, 
save  that  "Contempt  and  defiance  alone  actuated  me. 
I  had  known  Seward  intimately,  and  he  had  frequently 
enjoyed  the  hospitalities  of  my  table."  Unlike  its  worthy 
predecessor,  this  letter  was  to  bear  fruit. 

On  the  morning  of  January  5th  a  search  was  again 
commenced  throughout  the  house.  The  police  were 
searching  for  the  copy  of  the  second  letter.  But,  as  in 
the  first  instance,  the  copy  had  gone  out  simultaneously 
with  the  original.  When  Mrs.  Greenhow  was  allowed  to 
return  to  her  room  she  found  that  the  window  had  been 
nailed  up,  and  every  scrap  of  paper  had  been  taken  from 
her  writing-desk  and  table. 

It  was  this  copy  of  the  second  letter  to  Secretary 
Seward  which  sent  Mrs.  Greenhow  to  the  Old  Capitol 
Prison. 

It  was  published  as  the  first  had  been,  thereby  clearly 
showing  that  Mrs.  Greenhow  was  still  able  to  communicate 
with  the  South  almost  at  will  in  spite  of  all  efforts  to 
prevent  her.  It  was  the  last  straw.  The  State  Depart 
ment  acted  swiftly.  On  January  i8th  came  the  order 
for  Mrs.  Greenhow  to  prepare  for  immediate  removal 
elsewhere;  two  hours  later  she  parted  from  her  faithful 
and  weeping  maid,  and  she  and  the  little  Rose  left  their 
home  forever.  Between  the  doorstep  and  the  carriage 
was  a  double  file  of  soldiers,  between  whom  she  passed; 
at  the  carriage — still  holding  little  Rose  by  the  hand- 
she  turned  on  the  soldiers  indignantly.  "May  your  next 
duty  be  a  more  honorable  one  than  that  of  guarding 
helpless  women  and  children,"  she  said. 

Dusk  had  fallen  ere  the  carriage  reached  the  Old 
Capitol;  here,  too,  a  guard  was  drawn  up  under  arms  to 

199 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

prevent  any  attempt  at  rescue.  The  receiving-room  of 
the  prison  was  crowded  with  officers  and  civilians,  all 
peering  curiously.  Half  an  hour  later  she  and  the  child 
were  marched  into  a  room  very  different  from  that  which 
they  had  left  in  the  house  in  Sixteenth  Street.  The  room, 
ten  by  twelve,  was  on  the  second  floor  of  the  back  building 
of  the  prison;  its  only  window  (over  which  special  bars 
were  placed  next  day)  looked  out  upon  the  prison  yard. 
A  narrow  bed,  on  which  was  a  straw  mattress  covered 
by  a  pair  of  unwashed  cotton  sheets,  a  small  feather 
pillow,  dingy  and  dirty,  a  few  wooden  chairs,  a  table, 
and  a  cracked  mirror,  furnished  the  room  which  from 
that  night  was  to  be  theirs  during  months  of  heart 
breaking  imprisonment. 

An  understanding  of  those  bitter  days  can  be  given 
best  by  extracts  from  her  diary: 

11  January  25th.  I  have  been  one  week  in  my  new 
prison.  My  letters  now  all  go  through  the  detective  po 
lice,  who  subject  them  to  a  chemical  process  to  extract 
the  treason.  In  one  of  the  newspaper  accounts  I  am 
supposed  to  use  sympathetic  ink.  I  purposely  left  a  prep 
aration  very  conspicuously  placed,  in  order  to  divert 
attention  from  my  real  means  of  communication,  and  they 
have  swallowed  the  bait  and  fancy  my  friends  are  at 
their  mercy." 

"  January  28th.  This  day  as  I  stood  at  my  barred 
window  the  guard  rudely  called,  'Go  'way  from  that  win 
dow!'  and  leveled  his  musket  at  me.  I  maintained  my 
position  without  condescending  to  notice  him,  where 
upon  he  called  the  corporal  of  the  guard.  I  called  also 
for  the  officer  of  the  guard,  .  .  .  who  informed  me  that 
I  must  not  go  to  the  window.  I  quietly  told  him  that 

200 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

at  whatever  peril,  I  should  avail  myself  of  the  largest 
liberty  of  the  four  walls  of  my  prison.  He  told  me  that 
his  guard  would  have  orders  to  fire  upon  me.  I  had  no 
idea  that  such  monstrous  regulations  existed.  To-day 
the  dinner  for  myself  and  child  consists  of  a  bowl  of 
beans  swimming  in  grease,  two 'slices  of  fat  junk,  and 
two  slices  of  bread.  ...  I  was  very  often  intruded  upon 
by  large  parties  of  Yankees,  who  came  with  passes  from 
the  Provost- Marshal  to  stare  at  me.  Sometimes  I  was 
amused,  and  generally  contrived  to  find  out  what  was 
going  on.  ...  Afterward  I  requested  the  superintendent 
not  to  allow  any  more  of  these  parties  to  have  access  to 
me.  He  told  me  that  numbers  daily  came  to  the  prison 
who  would  gladly  give  him  ten  dollars  apiece  to  be  al 
lowed  to  pass  my  open  door." 

"March  jd.  Since  two  days  we  are  actually  allowed 
a  half -hour's  exercise  in  the  prison-yard,  where  we  walk 
up  and  down,  picking  our  way  as  best  we  can  through 
mud  and  negroes,  followed  by  soldiers  and  corporals, 

bayonets  in  hand Last  night  I  put  my  candle 

on  the  window,  in  order  to  get  something  out  of  my 
trunk  near  which  it  stood,  all  unconscious  of  committing 
any  offense  against  prison  discipline,  when  the  guard 
below  called,  Tut  out  that  light!'  I  gave  no  heed,  but 
only  lighted  another,  whereupon  several  voices  took  up 
the  cry,  adding,  'Damn  you,  I  will  fire  into  your  room!' 
Rose  was  in  a  state  of  great  delight,  and  collected  all  the 
ends  of  candles  to  add  to  the  illumination.  By  this  the 
clank  of  arms  and  patter  of  feet,  in  conjunction  with  the 
furious  rapping  at  my  door,  with  a  demand  to  open  it, 
announced  the  advent  of  corporal  and  sergeant.  My  door 
was  now  secured  inside  by  a  bolt  which  had  been  allowed 

201 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

me.  I  asked  their  business.  Answer,  'You  are  making 
signals,  and  must  remove  your  lights  from  the  window.' 
I  said,  'But  it  suits  my  convenience  to  keep  them  there.' 
'We  will  break  open  your  door  if  you  don't  open  it/ 
'You  will  act  as  you  see  fit,  but  it  will  be  at  your  peril!' 
They  did  not  dare  to  carry  out  this  threat,  as  they  knew 
that  I  had  a  very  admirable  pistol  on  my  mantelpiece, 
restored  to  me  a  short  time  since,  although  they  did 
not  know  that  I  had  no  ammunition  for  it."  The  candles 
burned  themselves  out,  and  that  ended  it,  save  that  next 
day,  by  order  of  the  Provost-Marshal,  the  pistol  was 
taken  from  the  prisoner. 

But  it  was  not  all  a  merry  baiting  of  the  guards — there 
was  hardship  connected  with  this  imprisonment.  In 
spite  of  the  folded  clothing  placed  on  the  hard  bed,  the 
child  used  to  cry  out  in  the  night,  "Oh,  mama,  mama, 
the  bed  hurts  me  so!"  The  rooms  above  were  filled  with 
negroes.  "The  tramping  and  screaming  of  negro  chil 
dren  overhead  was  most  dreadful."  Worse  than  mere 
sound  came  from  these  other  prisoners:  there  came  dis 
ease.  Smallpox  broke  out  among  them,  also  the  lesser 
disease,  camp  measles,  which  latter  was  contracted  by  the 
little  Rose.  She,  too,  had  her  memories  of  the  Old 
Capitol;  in  a  recent  letter  she  wrote: 

"I  do  not  remember  very  much  about  our  imprison 
ment  except  that  I  used  to  cry  myself  to  sleep  from 
hunger.  .  .  .  There  was  a  tiny  closet  in  our  room  in 
which  mother  contrived  to  loosen  a  plank  that  she  would 
lift  up,  and  the  prisoners  of  war  underneath  would  catch 
hold  of  my  legs  and  lower  me  into  their  room;  they  were 
allowed  to  receive  fruit,  etc.,  from  the  outside,  and  gen 
erously  shared  with  me,  also  they  would  give  mother 

203 


MRS.  GREENHOW 

news  of  the  outside  world."  Thus  the  days  passed  until 
Mrs.  Greenhow  was  summoned  to  appear,  March  25th, 
before  the  United  States  Commissioners  for  the  Trial  of 
State  Prisoners. 

Of  this  "trial"  the  only  record  available  is  her  own- 
rather  too  flippant  in  tone  to  be  wholly  convincing  as 
to  its  entire  sincerity.  Her  account  begins  soberly 
enough:  the  cold,  raw  day,  the  slowly  falling  snow,  the 
mud  through  which  the  carriage  labored  to  the  office 
of  the  Provost-Marshal  in  what  had  been  the  residence 
of  Senator  Guin — "one  of  the  most  elegant  in  the  city;  .  .  . 
my  mind  instinctively  reverted  to  the  gay  and  brilliant 
scenes  in  which  I  had  mingled  in  that  house,  and  the 
goodly  company  who  had  enjoyed  its  hospitality. ' '  There 
was  a  long  wait  in  a  fireless  anteroom;  then  she  was  led 
before  the  Commissioners  for  her  trial.  "My  name  was 
announced,  and  the  Commissioners  advanced  to  receive 
rne  with  ill-concealed  embarrassment.  I  bowed  to  them, 
saying:  'Gentlemen,  resume  your  seats.  I  recognize  the 
embarrassment  of  your  positions ;  it  was  a  mistake  on  the 
part  of  your  government  to  have  selected  gentlemen  for 
this  mission.  You  have,  however,  shown  me  but  scant 
courtesy  in  having  kept  me  waiting  your  pleasure  for 
nearly  an  hour  in  the  cold."  The  prisoner  took  her 
place  at  the  long  table,  midway  between  the  two  Com 
missioners,  one  of  whom,  General  Dix,  was  a  former 
friend ;  at  smaller  tables  were  several  secretaries ;  if  there 
were  any  spectators  other  than  the  newspaper  reporters, 
she  makes  no  mention  of  them.  The  trial  began. 

"One  of  the  reporters  now  said,  'If  you  please,  speak 
a  little  louder,  madam.'  I  rose  from  my  seat,  and  said  to 
General  Dix,  'If  it  is  your  object  to  make  a  spectacle 

203 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

of  me,  and  furnish  reports  for  the  newspapers,  I  shall 
have  the  honor  to  withdraw  from  this  presence.'  Here 
upon  both  Commissioners  arose  and  protested  that  they 
had  no  such  intention,  but  that  it  was  necessary  to  take 
notes.  ..."  The  examination  then  continued  "in  a 
strain  in  no  respect  different  from  that  of  an  ordinary 
conversation  held  in  a  drawing-room,  and  to  which  I 
replied  sarcastically,  .  .  .  and  a  careless  listener  would 
have  imagined  that  the  Commission  was  endeavoring 
with  plausible  arguments  to  defend  the  government  rather 
than  to  incriminate  me.  ..."  The  other  Commissioner 
then  said,  '  'General  Dix,  you  are  so  much  better  ac 
quainted  with  Mrs.  Greenhow,  suppose  you  continue 
the  examination.'  I  laughingly  said,  'Commence  it,  for 
I  hold  that  it  has  not  begun.'  '  Mrs.  Greenhow's  account 
makes  no  mention  of  any  witnesses  either  for  or  against 
her;  the  evidence  seems  to  have  consisted  solely  in  the 
papers  found  in  her  house.  The  whole  examination— 
as  she  records  it — may  be  summed  up  in  the  following 
questions  and  answers: 

"  'You  are  charged  with  treason/  'I  deny  it!'  'You 
are  charged,  madam,  with  having  caused  a  letter  which 
you  wrote  to  the  Secretary  of  State  to  be  published  in 
Richmond.'  'That  can  hardly  be  brought  forward  as 
one  of  the  causes  of  my  arrest,  for  I  had  been  some  three 
months  a  prisoner  when  that  letter  was  written.'  'You 
are  charged,  madam,  with  holding  communication  with 
the  enemy  in  the  South.'  'If  this  were  an  established 
fact,  you  could  not  be  surprised  at  it;  I  am  a  Southern 
woman.'  .  .  .  'How  is  it,  madam,  that  you  have  managed 
to  communicate,  in  spite  of  the  vigilance  exercised  over 
you?'  'That  is  my  secret!'  :  And  that  was  practically 

204 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

the  end,  save  that  the  prisoner  said  she  would  refuse  to 
take  the  oath  of  allegiance  if  this  opportunity  to  be 
freed  were  offered  her. 

April  3d  the  superintendent  of  the  Old  Capitol  read 
to  her  a  copy  of  the  decree  of  the  Commission:  she  had 
been  sentenced  to  be  exiled.  But  the  days  passed,  and 
nothing  came  of  it.  Tantalized  beyond  endurance,  she 
wrote  that  she  was  " ready"  to  go  South.  General 
McClellan,  she  was  then  told,  had  objected  to  her  being 
sent  South  at  this  time.  (Federal  spies  —  Secret  Service 
men,  who,  under  Allan  Pinkerton,  had  arrested  Mrs. 
Greenhow — were  on  trial  for  their  lives  in  Richmond; 
it  was  feared  that,  were  she  sent  South,  her  testimony 
would  be  used  against  them.)  ''Day  glides  into  day 
with  nothing  to  mark  the  flight  of  time,"  the  diary 
continues.  "The  heat  is  intense,  with  the  sun  beating 
down  upon  the  house-top  and  in  the  windows.  .  .  .  My 
child  is  looking  pale  and  ill.  .  .  ." 

"Saturday,  May  31  st.  At  two  o'clock  to-day  [Prison 
Superintendent]  Wood  came  in  with  the  announcement 
that  I  was  to  start  at  three  o'clock  for  Baltimore."  The 
end  of  imprisonment  had  come  as  suddenly  as  its  begin 
ning. 

Disquieting  rumors  had  been  reaching  Mrs.  Greenhow 
for  some  time  in  regard  to  removal  to  Fort  Warren. 
Was  this,  after  all,  a  mere  Yankee  trick  to  get  her  there 
quietly?  She  was  about  to  enter  the  carriage  that  was 
to  bear  her  from  the  Old  Capitol,  when,  unable  longer 
to  bear  the  suspense,  she  turned  suddenly  to  the  young 
lieutenant  of  the  escort:  ''Sir,  ere  I  advance  further,  I 
ask  you,  not  as  Lincoln's  officer,  but  as  a  man  of  honor 
and  a  gentleman,  are  your  orders  from  Baltimore  to 

205 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

conduct  me  to  a  Northern  prison,  or  to  some  point  in 
the  Confederacy?"  "On  my  honor,  madam,"  he  an 
swered,  "to  conduct  you  to  Fortress  Monroe  and  thence 
to  the  Southern  Confederacy."  Her  imprisonment  had, 
indeed,  ended.  There  was  yet  the  Abolition-soldier  guard 
—on  the  way  to  the  station,  to  the  cars,  in  Baltimore, 
on  the  steamer;  there  was  yet  to  be  signed  at  Fortress 
Monroe  the  parole  in  which,  in  consideration  of  being 
set  at  liberty,  she  pledged  her  honor  not  to  return  north 
of  the  Potomac  during  the  war;  but  from  that  moment 
at  the  carriage  door  she  felt  herself  no  longer  a  prisoner. 

To  the  query  of  the  Provost-Marshal  at  Fortress 
Monroe  she  replied  that  she  wished  to  be  sent  "to  the 
capital  of  the  Condeferacy,  wherever  that  might  be." 
That  was  still  Richmond,  he  told  her,  but  it  would  be 
in  Federal  hands  before  she  could  reach  there.  She  would 
take  chances  on  that,  was  her  laughing  rejoinder.  And 
so  she  was  set  ashore  at  City  Point  by  a  boat  from  the 
Monitor;  and  next  morning,  June  4th,  she  and  little  Rose, 
escorted  by  Confederate  officers,  arrived  in  Richmond. 
And  there,  "on  the  evening  of  my  arrival,  our  President 
did  me  the  honor  to  call  on  me,  and  his  words  of  greeting, 
'But  for  you  there  would  have  been  no  battle  of  Bull 
Run,'  repaid  me  for  all  I  had  endured." 

Could  the  story  be  told  of  the  succeeding  twenty-seven 
months  of  Mrs.  Greenhow's  life,  much  of  the  secret  his 
tory  of  the  Confederacy  might  be  revealed.  It  is  im 
probable  that  the  story  ever  will  be  told.  Months  of 
effort  to  learn  details  have  resulted  in  but  vague  glimpses 
of  her,  as  one  sees  an  ever-receding  figure  at  the  turns 
of  a  winding  road.  Her  daughter  Rose  has  written: 
"Whether  mother  did  anything  for  the  Condeferacy  in 

206 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

Richmond  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  I  know  that  we  went 
to  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  and  that  she  saw  General 
Beauregard  there."  Then  came  weeks  of  waiting  for 
the  sailing  of  a  blockade-runner  from  Wilmington,  North 
Carolina;  quiet,  happy  weeks  they  were,  perhaps  the 
happiest  she  had  known  since  the  war  began.  She  was 
taking  little  Rose  to  Paris,  to  place  her  in  the  Convent 
of  the  Sacred  Heart,  she  told  her  new-made  friends.  One 
morning  they  found  that  she  and  little  Rose  had  gone. 
A  blockade-runner  had  slipped  out  during  the  night  and 
was  on  its  way  with  them  to  Bermuda. 

Many  have  definitely  asserted  that  Mrs.  Greenhow 
went  to  England  and  France  on  a  secret  mission  for  the 
Confederacy.  No  proof  of  this  has  ever  been  found,  but 
the  little  which  has  been  learned  of  her  sojourn  in  Europe 
strongly  supports  the  theory  of  such  a  mission  there. 
The  ship  which  bore  them  to  England  from  Bermuda 
was  an  English  man-of-war,  in  which  they  sailed  "at 
President  Davis 's  especial  request."  Then  there  were 
President  Davis 's  personal  letters  to  Messrs.  Mason  and 
Slidell,  requesting  them  that  they  show  to  Mrs.  Greenhow 
every  attention.  In  France  she  was  given  a  private  audi 
ence  with  Napoleon  III.;  in  London,  presented  to  Eng 
land's  Queen.  A  letter  written  to  her  by  James  Spence, 
financial  agent  of  the  Confederates  in  Liverpool,  shows 
her  to  have  been  actively  engaged  in  support  of  the 
interests  of  the  South  from  her  arrival  in  England.  But 
of  any  secret  mission  there  is  not  a  trace — unless  her 
book,  My  Imprisonment,  or  the  First  Year  of  Abolition 
Rule  in  Washington,  may  thus  be  considered.  The 
book  was  brought  out  in  November,  1863,  by  the  well- 
known  English  publishing-house  of  Richard  Bentley  & 

207 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

Son;  immediately  it  made  a  profound  sensation  in  Lon 
don — particularly  in  the  highest  society  circles,  into 
which  Mrs.  Greenhow  had  at  once  been  received.  My 
Imprisonment  was  a  brilliant  veneer  of  personal  war 
time  experiences  laid  alluringly  over  a  solid  backing  of 
Confederate  States  propaganda.  Richmond  may  or 
may  not  have  fathered  it,  but  that  book  in  England 
served  the  South  well.1  None  who  knew  Mrs.  Greenhow 
ever  forgot  her  charm;  she  made  friends  everywhere- 
such  friends  as  Thomas  Carlyle  and  Lady  Franklin,  and 
a  score  more  whose  names  are  nearly  as  well  known 
to-day.  She  was  betrothed  to  a  prominent  peer. 

All  in  all,  this  is  but  scant  information  to  cover  a 
period  of  more  than  two  years.  Only  one  other  fact 
has  been  obtained  regarding  her  life  abroad,  but  it  is 
most  significant  in  support  of  the  belief  that  she  was  a 
secret  agent  for  the  Confederacy.  In  August,  1864, 
Mrs.  Greenhow  left  England  suddenly  and  sailed  for 
Wilmington  on  the  ship  Condor.  Though  her  plans  were 
to  return  almost  at  once,  marry,  and  remain  in  England, 
the  fact  that  she  left  in  London  her  affianced  husband, 
and  her  little  Rose  in  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart 
in  Paris,  while  she  herself  risked  her  life  to  run  the  block 
ade,  seems  strong  evidence  that  her  business  in  the  Con 
federate  States  of  America  was  important  business  in 
deed.  The  Condor  was  a  three  funneled  steamer,  newly 
built,  and  on  her  first  trip  as  a  blockade-runner — a  trade 
for  which  she  was  superbly  adapted,  being  swift  as  a  sea- 
swallow.  She  was  commanded  by  a  veteran  captain  of 
the  Crimean  War — an  English  officer  on  a  year's  leave, 

1  Many  of  the  passages  in  this  article  have  been  quoted  from  Mrs. 
Greenhow's  own  narrative. 

208 


MRS.  GREENHOW    AND    THE    TWO    OTHER    PASSENGERS    DEMANDED    THAT 
THEY    BE    SET    ASHORE 


MRS.    GREENHOW 

blockade-running  or  adventure— Captain  Augustus  Charles 
Hobart-Hampden,  variously  known  to  the  blockade-run 
ning  fleet  as  Captain  Roberts,  Hewett,  or  Gulick. 

On  the  night  of  September  3oth  the  Condor  arrived  op 
posite  the  mouth  of  the  Cape  Fear  River,  the  entry  for 
Wilmington,  and  in  the  darkness  stole  swiftly  through 
the  blockade.  She  was  almost  in  the  mouth  of  the  river, 
and  not  two  hundred  yards  from  shore,  when  suddenly 
there  loomed  up  in  the  darkness  a  vessel  dead  ahead. 
To  the  frightened  pilot  of  the  Condor  it  was  one  of  the 
Federal  squadron;  he  swerved  his  ship  sharply,  and  she 
drove  hard  on  New  Inlet  bar.  In  reality  the  ship  which 
had  caused  the  damage  was  the  wreck  of  the  blockade- 
runner  Nighthawk,  which  had  been  run  down  the  pre 
vious  night.  The  Condor's  pilot  sprang  overboard  and 
swam  ashore.  Dawn  was  near  breaking,  and  in  the 
now  growing  light  the  Federal  blockaders  which  had 
followed  the  Condor  were  seen  to  be  closing  in.  Though 
the  Condor,  lying  almost  under  the  very  guns  of  Fort 
Fisher — which  had  begun  firing  at  the  Federal  ships 
and  was  holding  them  off — was  for  the  time  being  safe, 
yet  Mrs.  Greenhow  and  the  two  other  passengers,  Judge 
Holcombe  and  Lieutenant  Wilson,  Confederate  agents, 
demanded  that  they  be  set  ashore.  There  was  little 
wind  and  there  had  been  no  storm,  but  the  tide-rip  ran 
high  over  the  bar,  and  the  boat  was  lowered  into  heavy 
surf.  Scarcely  was  it  clear  of  the  tackles  ere  a  great 
wave  caught  it,  and  in  an  instant  it  was  overturned. 
Mrs.  Greenhow,  weighted  down  by  her  heavy  black-silk 
dress  and  a  bag  full  of  gold  sovereigns,  which  she  had 
fastened  round  her  waist,  sank  at  once,  and  did  not  rise 
again.  The  others  succeeded  in  getting  ashore. 

14  209 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

The  body  of  Mrs.  Greenhow  was  washed  up  on  the 
beach  next  day.  They  buried  her  in  Wilmington — buried 
her  with  the  honors  of  war,  and  a  Confederate  flag 
wrapped  about  her  coffin.  And  every  Memorial  Day 
since  then  there  is  laid  upon  her  grave  a  wreath  of  laurel 
leaves  such  as  is  placed  only  upon  the  graves  of  soldiers. 
Long  ago  the  Ladies'  Memorial  Society  placed  there  a 
simple  marble  cross,  on  which  is  carved:  "Mrs.  Rose 
O'Neal  Greenhow.  A  Bearer  of  Despatches  to  the  Con 
federate  Government.'* 


LANDEGON 

"HE  was  the  bravest  man  I  ever  knew:  General  Kil- 
patrick  also  used  to  say  that  of  him.  But  he  will  not 
talk  about  himself — so  you  may  not  get  what  you  want; 
but  come  up  and  try."  That  was  in  the  letter  that  sent 
me  all  the  miles  to  see  John  Landegon. 

He  did  not  believe  in  getting  into  the  papers — he  said — 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing;  people  would  say,  "Here's  an 
other  old  vet  lying  about  the  war" — more  of  that  sort; 
he  hadn't  got  into  print,  and  he  wouldn't  now. 

We  led  him  on — or  tried  to — Captain  Northrop  and  I. 

"John,  do  you  remember  anything  about  the  six  Con 
federates  you  and  one  of  the  boys  captured  in  a  barn? 
What  about  that?"  And  old  John  Landegon,  with  never 
a  smile,  answered,  dryly: 

"I  was  there.  That  was  in  the  spring  of  '62,  and  soon 
after  that  we  broke  camp  and  marched  to — " 

Campaigns  and  dates,  and  the  movements  of  armies 
and  of  corps — but  never  an  "I"  in  it  all,  and  he  would 
have  it  so.  Evening  came — the  hours  I  had  looked  for 
ward  to  all  the  long,  profitless  afternoon;  but  it  seemed 
it  was  to  bring  only  more  dates,  and  the  proper  spelling 
of  the  names  of  officers  long  forgotten  and  long  dead. 
Through  it  all,  like  a  tortuous  river-bed,  empty,  bone- 
dry,  there  ran  his  modest  estimate  of  his  service: 

"I  enlisted  for  three  months  in  the  First  Regiment, 

211 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

Connecticut  Volunteer  Infantry,  Company  D,  and  there 
I  got  a  little  notoriety  cheap.  How?  Oh,  I  got  a  pris 
oner;  and  so  I  was  detailed  as  a  headquarters  scout 
under  General  Tyler;  and  because  of  that,  when  I  re- 
enlisted  in  Company  C  of  the  Second  Regiment,  New 
York  Volunteer  Cavalry — better  known  as  the  'Harris 
Light' — I  was  once  more  detailed  as  a  scout,  this  time 
under  Colonel  Judson  Kilpatrick.  That  was  in  the 
spring  of  '61,  and  I  served  with  him  until—  Discour 
aged,  I  threw  the  note-book  down,  and  said  that  I  had 
done.  There  were  hours  to  wait  until  the  train  should 
come  and  carry  my  ruined  note-book  and  myself  away. 
The  time  dragged;  we  smoked,  and  talked  in  a  desultory 
way,  and  then  some  chance  idle  word  impelled  John 
Landegon  to  tell  me  his  stories. 

It  was  as  though  an  unexpected  current  had  carried 
him  out  of  his  depth,  and  the  tide  had  caught  him  and 
swept  him  back  through  nearly  fifty  years,  until  he  rode 
again  in  the  great  war.  And  I  was  with  him  as  though 
I  rode  at  his  side.  Sentences  were  whole  scenes;  words 
were  sensations,  emotions.  He  had  gone  back  into  it- 
was  living  it  over  again,  and  he  had  taken  me  along. 

There  was  the  dry  griminess  of  dust  rising  in  clouds 
from  the  parched  Virginia  roads ;  .  .  .  there  was  the  acrid 
smell  of  sweating  horses  and  of  men  .  .  .  creak  of  rain- 
soaked  saddles  .  .  .  the  loneliness  of  wind  in  the  trees  at 
night  along  dark-flowing  rivers;  his  words  brought  the 
shimmer  of  heat  above  unfenced,  untended  fields  .  .  . 
brought  the  feel  of  cool  gray  aisles  in  forests  of  Georgia 
pine  .  .  .  stiffened  bandages  .  .  .  pungent  whiffs  of  blue- 
white  powder-smoke  .  .  .  the  confusion  and  absorption 
of  men  fighting  at  close  range — fighting  to  kill. 

212 


LANDEGON 

It  was  such  a  simple,  boyish  beginning  that  he  made! 
A  story  to  be  told  with  chuckles,  to  be  listened  to  with 
smiles.  So  like  those  early,  lost-to-memory  days  of  the 
great  war — the  days  when  war  was  a  pastime,  a  summer 
muster  to  end  with  a  skirmish  and  a  hoorah;  the  days 
when  the  first  volunteers  had  not  yet  made  the  first 
veterans,  and  "Black-horse  Cavalry,"  "masked  bat 
teries,"  and  the  "Louisiana  Tigers"  were  specters  that 
stalked  round  each  camp-fire;  the  days  before  men  had 
seen  their  comrades  die. 

They  would  not  enlist  John  Landegon.  He  was  too 
young,  too  thin,  too  poor  food  for  powder.  And  so  he 
saw  the  company  of  heroes  march  away  in  triumph 
from  the  little  Connecticut  village;  they  left  him  raging 
and  grieving  behind.  He  went  to  Waterbury;  they  were 
raising  a  company  there.  Would  they  enlist  him?  No, 
they  would  not.  But  the  rush  of  the  first  enthusiasts 
slackened,  applications  became  less  frequent;  the  captain 
fumed — before  he  could  get  his  company  into  the  field 
the  war  would  be  over  and  done — would  the  quota 
never  fill !  The  last  few  enlistments  came  in,  hours  apart, 
and  the  whole  country-side  fretted  for  the  honor  of  the 
town — all  but  Landegon;  each  hour  was  bringing  nearer 
to  him  his  chance.  At  last  they  took  him;  he  was  under 
age  and  looked  it;  he  had  not  the  necessary  parental 
consent,  he  was  not  even  from  Waterbury — but  they 
took  him;  and  it  was  thus  that  he  went  to  war. 

"Camp"  was  at  Vienna,  Virginia,  a  few  miles  out  from 
Alexandria;  it  was  just  "camp" — not  more.  The  army 
that  was  to  be  was  then  but  companies  of  individuals, 
groups  of  neighbors,  friends.  The  welding  of  war  had 
not  yet  begun.  Rumor  was  the  one  excitement  of  the 

213 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

dragging  weeks;  camp  life  palled;  the  three-months  period 
of  enlistment  was  nearly  past. 

Time  after  time  Landegon  was  passed  over  when 
picket  and  scouting  detachments  were  detailed.  At  last 
he  went  to  the  captain  —  a  stout,  fussy,  kindly  little 
man. 

"Captain,'*  he  said,  "7  want  to  go  out  with  the  scout 
ing  party;  I  can  scout  as  good  as  any  of  them." 

The  captain  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't  do  that,  John."  Then,  kind  and  confidential, 
he  went  on:  "You  see,  it's  this  way:  those  fellows  are  all 
prominent  citizens  back  in  Waterbury,  and  they've  got 
to  have  a  chance.  Waterbury  expects  a  lot  from  some 
of  us;  the  fellows  have  got  to  have  something  to  write 
home;  the  papers  up  in  our  town  have  got  to  tell  about 
our  citizens  doin'  things,  and  scoutin'  is  the  nearest  to 
fightin'  that  there  is  just  now." 

Landegon  protested  earnestly  that  his  town  expected 
just  as  much  of  him. 

"Oh,  nothin'  much  is  expected  of  you,  John — you're 
too  young."  Then,  with  finality,  "This  war  is  nearly 
over;  I  got  to  give  our  citizens  a  chance." 

"Scouting"  consisted  of  a  solemn,  impressive  march 
by  ten  or  a  dozen  prominent  citizens  along  the  front  of 
the  camp,  half  a  mile  or  so  in  advance  of  the  pickets; 
but  it  was  a  deed  filled  with  fine  thrills. 

Between  the  two  camps — Federal  and  Confederate — 
there  stretched  four  miles  of  no  man's  land,  filled  with 
all  the  terrors  that  go  hand  in  hand  with  untried  ground. 
But  John  Landegon  found  it  to  be  a  land  of  woods  and 
fields  and  low,  rolling  hills — a  land  empty  of  friend  or 
foe.  He  had  gone  out  into  it  alone  many  times  before  he 

214 


LANDEGON 

begged  of  the  stout  captain  the  privilege  of  making  the 
dignified  scouting.  Something  of  latent  daring,  some 
restlessness  within  him,  had  sent  him  stealing  out  beyond 
the  pickets  time  after  time  to  wander  among  the  hills. 
He  says  he  wanted  to  see  a  Confederate  before  he  went 
home  again!  Sometimes  he  wandered  far  enough  to  see 
long  black  lines  creeping  along  the  side  of  a  distant  hill; 
but  they  never  seemed  to  be  coming  his  way,  so  he  would 
go  back  to  the  camp,  content  and  silent. 

The  day  after  he  was  rejected  from  the  official  scout 
he  wandered  out  farther  than  ever  before,  driven  per 
haps  a  little  by  pique,  a  little  resentful,  a  little  sullen, 
maybe.  At  last  he  turned  to  go  back.  He  had  kept  to 
the  woods,  and  now  among  the  trees  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  moving  gray.  He  leaped  behind  a  tree,  and  stood 
there  trembling  with  excitement  and,  he  says,  with  fear. 
Once  he  stole  a  look,  and  as  quickly  dodged  behind  again; 
the  glimpse  had  shown  him  a  man  in  full  uniform — a 
a  very  new,  very  elegant  uniform — a  hat  turned  jauntily 
up  on  the  side,  and  with  a  highly  polished  musket  lying 
across  his  arm.  The  young  blade  of  the  Confederacy 
was  returning  from  some  lone-hand  scout  of  his  own. 
Landegon  pressed  close  against  the  bark  of  the  tree  and 
humbly  prayed  that  the  man  might  change  his  course; 
he  came  straight  on.  Behind  lay  the  Confederate  army- 
he  could  not  run;  from  in  front  advanced  the  very  devil 
of  a  fighter,  one  that  would  never  surrender  (camp-fire 
authority  for  that!  "They'll  never  surrender;  we'll  just 
have  to  mow  them  down").  He  would  have  to  mow  this 
one  down ;  would  have  to  kill  him.  He  had  never  even  seen 
a  man  die.  Somehow  it  had  never  seemed  that  war 
would  be  like  this.  The  man  was  almost  to  the  tree. 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

He  would  have  to  mow  him  down;  he  would  have  to — 
he  leaped  out,  leveling  his  musket  as  he  sprang. 

' '  Sur-ren-der  I "  he  screamed. 

The  brightly  polished  Confederate  musket  fell  to  the 
ground;  the  hands  waved,  beseeching  to  be  seen.  "I 
surrender!"  screamed  the  gray-clad  youth,  in  reply. 

John  Landegon  says  the  reaction  almost  made  him 
giddy,  and  he  wanted  to  dance  and  yell.  But  he  warily 
picked  up  the  musket,  and  he  marched  the  unhappy  man 
the  three  long  miles  back  to  the  camp.  And  on  that 
march,  in  his  elation,  he  evolved  the  philosophy  that 
was  to  carry  him  to  such  distinction  through  the  war: 
"The  other  fellow  is  just  as  much  afraid  of  me — maybe 
more."  I  should  like  to  have  seen  that  home-coming! 
I  think  I  can  see  it  now :  the  prisoner  stumbling  in  front ; 
lank  John  Landegon  stalking  like  Death  behind;  men 
running  from  regiments  a  mile  away  to  see  the-  captor 
and  his  prize. 

"And  after  that,"  said  he,  in  his  dry,  shy  way,  "I  was 
the  big  fellow;  I  went  on  all  the  scoutings  that  were  made." 
Waterbury  claimed  him  for  its  own. 

That  philosophy  did  not  always  hold  good.  It  was  a 
rank  failure  at  Bull  Run.  He  climbed  a  tree  there,  and 
it  was  not  philosophy  that  brought  him  down.  The  battle 
had  been  fought  and  lost.  Long,  late  afternoon  shadows 
lay  heavy  on  the  trampled,  bloody  grass;  shadows  from 
west  and  south,  toward  north  and  east,  blighting  the  path, 
pointing  the  way  to  Washington. 

In  that  portion  of  the  field  where  Landegon  was  when 
the  battle  ended,  he  says  that  there  seemed  no  cause  to 
hurry  away.  The  Confederates  were  in  plain  sight  on 
the  distant  hillsides,  but  came  no  nearer,  content  to 

216 


LANDEGON 

shell  the  fugitives  from  afar.  Some  distance  back,  he 
came  upon  a  church,  about  which  a  score  of  abandoned, 
plunging  cavalry  horses  were  tied.  He  was  plodding 
past,  when  an  officer  rushed  to  him. 

"Take  a  horse!"  the  officer  was  urging  all  who  were 
passing;  many  ran  close  by  and  never  turned  their  heads; 
men  were  running  everywhere. 

"Take  a  horse!  tak'e  a  horse!"  the  officer  kept  calling, 
as  they  passed.  "The  rebels  '11  get  them  if  you  don't." 
He  was  a  thrifty  soul.  Landegon  stopped;  he  selected 
one,  and  tied  his  gun  to  the  saddle,  then  galloped  for  the 
rear.  The  officer  was  still  querulously  calling,  "Take  a 
horse!  take  a  horse!"  as  he  rode  away. 

There  came  a  great  crowd,  running.  From  behind 
them  at  the  blocked  ford — where  they  had  been  headed 
by  some  Confederate  cavalry — there  came  the  turmoil 
of  fighting,  mob-like  fighting,  so  different  from  a  battle's 
roar.  Those  who  were  running  had  been  behind,  or  had 
broken  away,  and  now,  the  forefront  of  the  rout,  came 
running,  sheep-like,  back  in  panic  over  the  way  they  had 
just,  in  panic,  gone.  Some  were  running  stolidly,  mechan 
ically,  as  though  stiff  with  fear;  others,  plunging;  others, 
running  profitlessly — shoulders  forward,  elbows  stiffly 
back,  and  ghastly,  sweatless  faces  upturned  to  the  blind 
ing  sky;  of  these,  their  mouths  were  gaping  open  like 
banked  fishes  sucking  at  the  air.  There  was  little  sound 
save  the  pounding  of  the  footfalls  on  the  sun-baked 
Virginia  fields.  Cries  of  terror  could  have  added  nothing 
to  the  horror;  the  very  sight  of  such  is  contagion  of  the 
plague — Panic. 

Landegon  slid  from  his  horse,  and,  without  untying 
his  gun,  turned  and  ran.  The  mob  was  scattering,  each 

217 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

seeking  his  own  hiding-place ;  Landegon  ran  for  the  woods. 
He  says  that  just  then  he  feared  nothing  so  much  as  cap 
ture — death  was  not  so  dread. 

He  ran  into  a  tree,  staggered  back,  then  began  in  frantic 
haste  to  climb  it;  if  only  they  would  not  come  till  he 
could  reach  the  top!  Among  the  slender  branches  he 
screened  himself  with  leaves,  and  clung  there  swaying 
in  the  wind,  like  some  strange  arboreal  animal.  In  the 
great,  hot  dome  of  the  sky  there  was  no  sign  of  the  dark 
ness  whose  coming  should  save  him;  through  the  maze 
of  branches  and  the  fluttering  leaves  beneath  him  he 
could  see  the  earth,  still  sun-flecked  and  wholly  light. 
Suddenly  he  began  to  scramble  down.  On  the  instant 
with  his  elated  thought,  " They '11  never  take  me  here," 
had  come,  "There's  never  a  chance  to  be  taken — I'll  be 
shot.  They'll  not  be  able  to  resist  the  temptation  to  see 
me  tumble  from  so  high."  It  sent  him  sliding  and  swing 
ing  and  dropping  from  branch  to  branch  until  he  reached 
the  ground  and  threw  himself  into  a  thicket. 

It  was  a  long,  hard  road  from  the  top  of  the  tree  to 
the  position  of  Sheridan's  chief  scout.  What  happened 
during  that  journey  I  shall  never  know;  he  was  not 
telling  me  the  history  of  his  career,  remember.  What  he 
told  were  just  incidents  plucked  from  here  and  there — 
a  half-dozen  days  out  of  the  thousand  days  and  nights 
of  his  service. 

I  wanted  him  to  tell  me  more  about  his  work  as  scout — 
the  messages  he  had  carried,  the  information  he  had 
obtained. 

"I  can't  do  that,"  he  said.  "Why?  because  I  don't 
remember  it — how  could  I?  I  couldn't  keep  copies  of 
despatches,  and  I  can't  remember  the  verbal  messages — * 

218 


LANDEGON 

now.  'Landegon,  take  this  to  General  So-and-so  over 
back  of  Such-a-place. '  Maybe  I  wouldn't  ever  know 
what  was  in  the  message,  even  though  the  result  of  an 
engagement  had  been  decided  by  it;  maybe  it  was  in 
cipher;  maybe  I  didn't  care  what  was  in  it.  My  business 
was  to  get  it  there.  Perhaps  it  was  only  such  a  message 
as  an  aide-de-camp  would  have  been  sent  with  if  he  could 
have  kept  in  our  lines  while  delivering  it.  But  here's 
the  thing:  us  scouts  risked  our  lives  to  deliver  those 
messages.  We  did  it  sometimes  every  day;  sometimes 
only  once  every  week.  If  we  got  caught  we  got  hanged, 
or  maybe  only  shot;  if  we  got  through  without  any  close 
call  that  was  out  of  the  ordinary — like  losing  our  chum 
or  our  horse,  or  something  like  that — why,  then,  that  was 
just  part  of  a  day's  work,  and  by  next  week  we  wouldn't 
remember  anything  about  it  except  the  roads  we  had  been 
on  and  the  fords  crossed  and  the  lay  of  the  hills  and 
ravines. 

"Information,  the  same  way.  'See  if  you  can  find  out 
when  Magruder  is  going  to  move' — something  o'  that 
sort.  And  I'd  go  out  through  the  country  between  the 
lines — in  just  as  much  danger  from  our  own  scoutin' 
parties,  mind,  as  from  the  enemy — and  I  would  get  through 
their  pickets  and  mix  in  with  any  I'd  find,  and  when  I  got 
what  I  wanted  to  know  I'd  come  back  and  report. 

"Maybe  there  would  be  a  fight  that  day  or  the  next, 
and  maybe  my  report  had  something  to  do  with  it,  but  I 
wouldn't  know  that  for  sure.  Like  as  not  I  wouldn't  be 
able  to  see  that  my  report  had  any  attention  paid  to  it. 
So  why  should  I  remember  now  about  such  things?  But 
here's  a  letter  that  I'm  going  to  let  you  read;  I  don't  want 
you  to  think  us  scouts  risked  our  necks  for  just  nothing 

219 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

those  days — even  if  we  can't  remember  what  reports  we 
made  forty-five  years  ago!" 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  drew  from  its  envelope 
a  single  worn  sheet.  It  was  written  from  the  Metro 
politan  Hotel,  New  York,  under  date  of  April  20,  1869. 
The  contents  were  intimately  personal,  but  there  is  this 
much  which  seems  by  right  to  belong  in  the  pages  that 
are  to  record  John  Landegon's  service: 

.  .  .  From  the  first  time  you  reported  to  me  as  scout  in  1861  until 
the  close  of  the  war  I  had  frequent  occasion  to  acknowledge  your 
distinguished  services,  and  I  know  of  no  man  who  has  manifested  more 
devotion  to  the  cause  of  the  Union  or  braved  greater  dangers  than  your 
self.  At  Fredericksburg,  on  the  Rapidan,  and  in  the  Shenandoah 
Valley,  you  displayed  great  courage  and  enterprise  in  obtaining  within 
the  enemy's  lines  intelligence  of  his  intended  movements,  and  I  can 
freely  say  that  much  of  the  success  of  my  cavalry,  in  the  campaign  of 
General  Sherman  from  Savannah  to  the  surrender  of  Johnson's  army, 
was  owing  to  the  information  obtained  by  you  for  me  as  scout  and 
spy.  .  .  . 

(Signed)  JUDSON  KILPATRICK. 

When  I  had  done,  I  looked  with  new  eyes  at  the  man 
whom  General  Judson  Kilpatrick  had  freely  accredited 
with  much  of  the  success  of  the  brilliant  cavalry  cam 
paign  of  the  Carolinas. 

It  was  characteristic  of  John  Landegon  at  such  a  time 
to  force  an  abrupt  change  of  subject. 

"I  mind  one  report  I  made,"  he  said.  "My  first  report 
to  General  Sheridan.  I'd  been  out  for  three  days — some 
where  in  the  enemy's  lines,  I  don't  remember  where,  or 
why — and  when  I  came  in  to  report  to  the  General  I 
thought  it  would  be  my  last  report.  'Well,'  he  says, 
'what  did  you  find?'  'Nothin','  I  answered — just  that. 
'By  Gee!'  he  yelled,  and  he  jumped  up  from  his  chair. 
'That's  the  best  report  I  ever  heard  a  scout  make!'  I 

220 


LANDEGON 

thought  he  was  mad  and  just  making  fun  of  me,  and  I 
stood  still  and  didn't  say  anything.  He  walked  close  up 
to  me.  'Do  you  know  why  I  think  so  much  of  that 
"nothin'  "  of  yours?  It's  because  you  didn't  think  you 
had  to  make  up  a  lot  of  lies  for  fear  I'd  think  you  hadn't 
been  working.  If  you  saw  "nothin'  "  in  three  days,  that 
means  there  was  nothing  to  see,  and  that's  the  one  thing 
I  wanted  to  know!' 

"I  remembered  that  little  talk  of  General  Sheridan's, 
and  it  helped  me  all  the  rest  of  the  war.  I  never  exag 
gerated  anything,  and  soon  they  got  to  count  on  what  I 
said.  Well" — abruptly,  as  though  he  had  again  said  too 
much — "there  was  only  twice  after  that  day  I  climbed 
the  tree  that  I  was  as  bad  scared.  There  was  often  enough 
that  I'd  think:  'Well,  by  Gee!  if  ever  I  get  back  safe  from 
this  fool  scout  I'll  never  go  out  again.  I'll  go  back  to 
my  regiment,  I'll  stand  guard,  I'll  do  picket,  I  will  clean 
camp' — more  of  that  sort — 'but  I'm  darned  if  I  go  in 
gray  out  of  the  lines.'  But  I  would  get  in  all  right,  and 
loaf  around  a  few  days  and  watch  the  other  boys  work, 
and  then  I'd  get  restless  or  think  of  the  big  money,  and 
then  the  order  would  come  and  out  I'd  go — like  as  not 
into  worse  than  before.  The  next  time  I  was  so  badly 
scared  was  the  night  after  I  had  been  shot.  I  was  Sheri 
dan's  chief  scout  then,  but  when  I  got  shot  I  was  with 
Meade's  scouts  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac.  I'd  been 
sent  to  General  Meade  with  despatches — I'll  tell  you 
about  that. 

"After  we  left  General  Sheridan  at  Ground  Squirrel 
Bridge,  on  the  South  Anna — this  was  Sheridan's  raid 
around  Lee  in  May,  '64 — Patrick  Myers,  my  best  scout, 
and  I  rode  around  the  flank  of  the  Confederate  cavalry 

221 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

where  they  were  righting  with  our  rear  guard.  They  had 
been  fighting  the  rear  guard  ever  since  we  had  got  in 
the  rear  of  Lee's  lines  on  the  gth.  This  day  I'm  telling 
you  of  was  the  loth — late  afternoon  of  the  loth — the 
day  before  Yellow  Tavern,  where  Jeb  Stuart  fell,  six 
miles  from  Richmond.  We  missed  that  fight. 

"The  country  was  so  rough  that,  to  make  time,  we 
swung  into  the  road  behind  the  Confederate  cavalry, 
and  ordered  the  stragglers  forward  to  their  regiments. 
Y'  see,  I  was  in  the  full  uniform  of  a  Confederate  officer, 
and  Patrick  Myers  was  my  orderly;  we  kept  hurrying 
the  stragglers  forward,  and  all  the  time  we  were  getting 
farther  to  the  rear.  It  was  the  best  fun  I  ever  had!" 
It  was  the  pinnacle  of  a  jest.  Landegon  chuckled  as  he 
told  of  it ;  I  chuckled  as  I  heard.  It  seemed  a  jest  in  the 
telling ;  since  then  I  have  set  it  down  as  one  of  the  shrewd 
est,  coolest  deeds  that  men  have  done. 

They  stopped  at  dark  at  a  farm-house  and  asked  for 
something  to  eat.  The  owner  of  the  house  was  too  old 
to  go  to  war;  he  gave  them  a  good  meal,  and  gladly  as 
sented  to  put  them  up  for  as  much  of  the  night  as  they 
could  remain.  After  the  meal  they  all  sat  about  the  table 
talking.  In  some  way  they  misunderstood  their  host — 
something  he  said;  they  believed  him  to  be  a  Union 
sympathizer  who,  because  of  their  gray  uniforms,  dared 
not  come  out  and  say  that  he  was  against  the  South. 

"We're  not  Confederates,"  one  of  them  blurted  out; 
"we  are  Union  soldiers."  The  old  man  rose  from  his 
chair. 

"Ye  lied  to  me,"  he  said. 

They  both  sprang,  startled,  to  their  feet  at  his  sudden 
movement,  and  it  must  have  been  a  dramatic  moment 

222 


LANDEGON 

as  they  faced  each  other  across  the  lamp-lit  table — the 
scouts  with  their  hands  on  their  revolvers,  the  white- 
bearded  old  man  majestic  in  his  indignation. 

"I've  given  you  food  and  offered  you  bed :  and  you  have 
lied  to  me !  You  yourselves  say  that  you  have  been  telling 
me  lies  all  the  evenin' !  I  wouldn't  have  you  sleep  in  my 
barn.  It  isn't  which  side  you're  on;  ye  lied  to  me!" 

He  drove  them  from  his  house  by  the  sheer  weight  of 
his  scorn.  They  sulkily  rode  away ;  but  in  the  stillness  of 
the  night  they  heard  a  horse,  hard  ridden,  leave  the  farm 
house,  and  they  rode  aside  into  the  woods  and  waited. 
Presently  a  troop  of  Confederate  cavalry  swept  by  on 
the  road  they  had  just  been  on. 

It  was  night  of  the  next  day — the  nth — when  they  got 
through  the  Confederate  pickets  and  struck  the  Matta- 
pony  River  some  miles  below  the  Army  of  the  Potomac. 

They  stripped,  and  put  their  clothes  on  a  bit  of  board, 
which  they  pushed  before  them  as  they  swam  the  river; 
it  was  storming  fiercely;  in  the  dark  the  rain  lashed  the 
river  into  pale  foam. 

They  made  their  painful  way  through  the  tangled 
thickets,  now  dazed  by  the  lightning,  now  blinded  by  the 
streaming  rain.  Federal  pickets  made  them  prisoners, 
and  finally,  to  their  insistence,  yielded  and  took  them 
under  guard  to  General  Grant — to  Grant,  though  they 
asked  to  be  taken  to  Meade. 

I  wish  that  Landegon  had  told  me  more  of  that  meet 
ing;  I  wish  that  I  had  asked. 

It  was  the  night  before  that  battle  which  was  to  sur 
pass  in  its  terrors  all  others  of  those  terrible  days  of  the 
Second  Wilderness  and  Spottsylvania  Court-house — the 
battle  of  the  "Bloody  Angle." 

223 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

4 

Of  the  meeting  I  learned  only  that  Grant  thanked 
them  and  praised  them  for  bringing  the  message  through 
Lee's  army.  Then  Landegon  swung  off  into  a  vehement 
panegyric  of  the  great  leader;  it  was  as  though  he  had 
lowered  a  curtain;  I  was  left  with  but  a  dim-seen  picture 
of  the  lantern-lighted  tent ;  the  Grant  of  my  own  imagina 
tion,  bending  low  to  smooth  out  and  read  by  the  flicker 
ing  light  a  crumpled  despatch  .  .  .  two  dripping,  gray- 
clad  soldiers — just  that,  and  an  intruding  consciousness 
of  the  confused  beating  of  the  rain  outside. 

This  is  the  despatch  that  they  had  borne  through  the 
Confederate  armies: 

HEADQUARTERS,  CAVALRY  CORPS, 
ARMY  OF  THE  POTOMAC,  May  10,  1864. 
MAJ.-GEN.  GEORGE  G.  MEADE, 

Commanding  Army  of  the  Potomac. 
GENERAL: 

I  turned  the  enemy's  right  and  got  into  their  rear.  Did  not  meet 
sufficient  of  cavalry  to  stop  me.  Destroyed  from  eight  to  ten  miles 
of  Orange  Railroad,  two  locomotives,  three  trains,  and  a  large  amount 
of  supplies.  The  enemy  were  making  a  depot  of  supplies  at  Beaver 
Dam.  Since  I  got  into  their  rear  there  has  been  great  excitement 
among  the  inhabitants  and  with  the  army.  The  citizens  report  that 
Lee  is  beaten.  Their  cavalry  has  attempted  to  annoy  my  rear  and 
flank,  but  have  been  run  off.  I  expect  to  fight  their  cavalry  south  of 
the  South  Anna  River.  I  have  no  forage.  Started  with  half  rations 
for  one  day,  and  have  found  none  yet.  Have  recaptured  five  hundred 
men,  two  colonels. 

I  am,  General,  very  respectfully, 

Your  obedient  servant, 

P.  H.  SHERIDAN, 
Major-General,  Commanding. 

He  brought  out  a  big  book,  and  his  long,  thin  fingers 
fluttered  the  pages  till  he  had  found  the  place  he  sought; 
I  watched  him  in  surprise.  He  handed  me  the  book,  open. 

224 


LANDEGON 

"There!"  he  said.  "That  won't  surprise  you  like  it 
did  me  the  first  time  I  saw  it!" 

"Scouts  and  Guides  with  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,1'  I 
read  under  the  picture. 

"I  bought  that  book  about  a  year  ago,  and  I  was 
looking  through  it,  and  all  of  a  sudden,  by  Gee !  there  was  I ! 
I  got  shot  the  very  next  day  after  the  picture  was  taken 
—the  only  one  I  had  taken  during  the  war — and  I  hadn't 
thought  about  the  photograph  from  that  day  until  I 
looked  out  at  myself  after  all  these  years.  I  had  just 
about  forgotten  what  sort  of  a  young  fellow  I  was  those 
days."  He  commenced  a  chuckle  of  infinite  amusement 
that  ended  in  a  sigh.  He  took  the  book  gently  from  me 
and  closed  it,  shutting  away  the  boy  that  had  been.  For 
a  moment  his  thin  fingers  fumbled  the  white  beard. 
"That  was  a  long  time  ago,"  he  said.  Then,  abruptly, 
"The  next  day  I  made  my  last  .scout  in  Virginia." 

Eleven  of  Meade's  scouts,  together  with  Landegon  and 
Myers,  were  sent  out  to  learn  if  Lee  was  being  reinforced 
from  the  south.  If,  by  the  time  the  Army  of  the  Potomac 
scouts  were  ready  to  return,  Sheridan  had  not  been  met, 
then  Landegon  and  Myers  were  to  go  on  until  they  found 
him.  Had  he  and  Myers  gone  to  Sheridan,  the  whole 
trip  would  have  gone  the  way  of  a  day's  work;  but,  in 
stead,  every  incident  of  the  day  is  fixed  sharp  and  clear 
in  his  memory;  the  De  Jarnett's,  where  they  stopped  to 
get  feed  for  their  horses,  and  where  they  were  "given" 
wine;  the  "contraband,"  who  showed  them  a  blind  ford 
of  the  Mattapony,  where  Landegon  and  Knight  (Meade's 
chief  scout)  crossed  to  interview  the  lonely  figure  on  the 
distant  hillcrest,  whom  they  took  to  be  a  vedette,  until 
the  man,  not  knowing  of  his  danger,  unconsciously  saved 
15  225 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

himself  by  raising  a  huge  cotton  umbrella  that  showed 
him  to  be  a  planter  overseeing  the  hands  at  work  in  his 
fields. 

They  turned  to  ride  back  to  their  men,  awaiting  them 
on  the  river's  bank,  when  there  suddenly  came  out  of  a 
lane  a  man  and  a  girl,  who  stared  at  them  in  surprise. 

"Have  you  seen  any  troops  come  by  ? "  the  scouts  asked, 
politely.  It  was  the  girl  who  answered: 

"Oh,  yes!  More  than  I  ever  saw  before  at  one  time! 
South  Carolina  soldiers.  How  many?  Why,  they  would 
reach  from  there  to  there ! "  The  space  indicated  a  brigade 
of  four  regiments.  It  was  the  information  they  had  come 
out  to  gain;  Knight  was  elated  at  the  ease  with  which  it 
had  been  obtained. 

"We're  Yankees!"  he  suddenly  said.  The  girl  looked 
at  Landegon's  gray  uniform,  at  Knight's  wheat-straw 
hat,  his  coat — purpled  by  the  rain  and  sun;  she  laughed. 

"About  as  much  Yankees  as  we  are!"  she  said. 

"We  are  Yankees!"  they  sternly  told  her.  Her  eyes 
grew  wide  with  fear. 

"You  shall  not — I — you  will  not  take  the  Doctor — 
my  husband?"  she  pleaded. 

They  reassured  her — they  would  only  take  dinner,  and 
pay  for  it,  they  said.  But  she  still  was  very  much  afraid. 
Landegon  waved  a  handkerchief,  and  the  rest  of  the 
scouts  came  up  at  a  gallop  from  the  river.  Young  Doctor 
Dew  and  his  wife  fled  in  terror.  The  scouts  shouted  with 
laughter,  and  trotted  after  them  to  the  house,  where 
presently  they  had  dinner.  Trivial  little  details,  these, 
but  I  dare  say  such  things  stick  in  a  man's  mind  if  he  is 
shot  that  day. 

They  rode  to  Penola  Station,  not  more  than  a  mile 

226 


LANDEGON 

away,  and  there  lay  the  parting  of  the  ways:  Landegon 
and  Myers  must  start  south  to  find  Sheridan,  Knight  and 
his  scouts  go  back  to  the  army  of  Grant  and  Meade. 

A  small  band  of  Confederates  dashed  out  of  a  cross 
road,  fired  a  bravado  volley  at  them,  and  galloped  away. 

11  Let's  have  a  fight!"  one  of  the  scouts  yelled,  "before 
you  fellows  leave."  In  a  moment  they  were  riding  hard 
after  the  Confederates,  shouting  and  yelling  like  frolicking 
boys. 

Landegon  says  he  had  the  best  horse  of  them  all.  As 
a  brave  man  and  a  modest  should,  he  lays  it  to  the  horse ; 
I  lay  it  to  the  man  who  rode.  He  drew  farther  and  farther 
ahead;  the  road  grew  choked  with  dust  that  rose  all 
about  them  like  smoke-filled  fog.  The  fleeing  Confed 
erates  had  been  reinforced,  had  turned,  and  were  coming 
back.  In  the  dust  Landegon  flashed  full  tilt  into  them 
before  he  found  what  he  had  done.  Horses  reared  and 
backed  and  shied;  there  was  a  tangle  and  confusion  that 
sent  up  blinding  clouds  in  which  no  man  knew  friend 
from  foe.  Landegon  whirled  his  horse  about  and  fired 
a  revolver  in  a  man's  face,  and  then  some  one  shot  him, 
and  his  paralyzed  hand  dropped  his  pistol,  and  the  whole 
thing  grew  confused.  He  knows  that  one  man  followed 
him,  shooting  at  him  at  every  bound;  and  when  his  re 
volver  was  empty,  the  man  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  threw 
the  pistol  whirling  over  and  over,  and  it  struck  him,  barrel 
end  on;  it  seemed  to  break  his  spine. 

He  knows  something  of  two  of  his  scouts  riding  one 
on  either  side  holding  him  in  his  saddle;  and  then  all  he 
knew  was  that  he  was  back  at  Doctor  Dew's  under  a 
tree  in  the  yard,  and  all  his  men  had  gone;  and  he  was 
quite  sure  that  very  soon  he  would  be  found  and  hanged, 

227 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

He  told  this  to  the  Dews,  and  they  took  his  gray  clothes 
and  buried  them  in  the  garden;  but  still  he  knew  that  very 
soon  he  would  certainly  be  hanged. 

He  says  that  he  had  once  before  nearly  gone  by  the 
rope  route,  and  it  was  the  memory  of  that  other  time 
that  now  filled  him  with  such  fear. 

He  thought  that  his  men  might  have  made  some  ar 
rangement  to  take  him  away;  he  found  afterward  that 
they  had  stood  off  the  reinforced  Confederates  until  he 
had  been  gotten  out  of  sight  on  his  way  to  the  Dews; 
then  they  had  ridden  for  the  safety  of  the  Union  lines. 
They  had  been  sure,  from  his  wound,  that  Landegon 
was  to  die;  but  they  promised  the  Dews  that  they  would 
come  back  for  him  in  a  few  days.  When  they  came  he 
was  gone. 

The  afternoon  waned;  the  young  doctor  had  managed 
to  get  him  into  the  house;  they  wanted  to  put  him  to 
bed  up-stairs,  but  he  would  not  have  it  so;  he  begged 
to  be  left  in  the  hall.  It  was  a  long,  straight  hall  through 
the  house;  at  one  end  the  front  door,  at  the  other  the 
back.  He  felt  that  unless  the  house  were  surrounded  he 
had  some  chance  there  for  his  life.  Yet  when  the  time 
did  come  he  was  without  the  strength  to  raise  himself 
from  the  couch.  The  night  had  grown  threadbare  gray 
and  old  before  they  came;  he  had  known  all  along  that 
they  would  come,  yet  when  he  heard  the  feet  on  the  gravel 
walk  he  was  more  afraid  than  he  thought  he  could  ever 
be.  The  Dews  had  gone  to  their  room  for  a  little  rest; 
Landegon  lay  alone  in  the  long,  black  hall — alone,  listen 
ing  to  the  footsteps  coming  nearer;  he  heard  them  reach 
the  door.  He  raised  himself  on  one  elbow — it  was  as 
far  as  he  could  go.  The  angry  knocks  on  the  door  sounded 

228 


LANDEGON 

like  thunder;  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  the  door  was 
burst  open  by  a  booted  foot,  and  a  man  stood  for  a 
moment  black  against  the  graying  sky. 

"Does  any  one  live  in  this  house?"  he  roared. 

Landegon  fell  back  limp  and  helpless;  he  answered 
almost  hysterically,  "Yes,  Jack,  I  do!'* 

It  was  Jack  Williams,  one  of  his  own  scouts  with 
Sheridan — a  comrade  from  the  "Harris  Light,"  his  own 
old  regiment. 

Sheridan  was  coming  back  that  way ;  Williams  had  been 
sent  ahead  to  find  out  about  the  roads,  and  he  had  stopped 
at  the  house  to  inquire  his  way.  Within  a  few  hours 
Landegon  was  in  an  ambulance,  riding  in  safety  in  the 
midst  of  ten  thousand  blue-clad  men. 

He  smoked  for  a  time  in  silence,  and  I  sought  to  set 
him  talking  again.  "You  said  you  were  nearly  hanged 
once — ?"  He  shook  his  head  and  frowned  slightly,  but 
said  nothing. 

"When  was  it?"  I  persisted. 

"May  12,  '62,"  he  answered,  dryly.  He  lay  back  in 
his  big  chair,  with  his  eyes  closed  as  though  to  shut  out 
something  he  did  not  care  to  see.  For  a  long  time  neither 
of  us  spoke;  suddenly  he  opened  his  eyes  and  sat  sharply 
forward  in  the  chair. 

"Do  you  know  that  there  are  nights  even  yet  when  I 
dream  of  that  day?  Do  you  know — but  of  course  you 
don't !  Well,  you've  got  me  to  thinking  of  it  again,  and 
I  might  as  well  tell  you,  even  of  that,  too. 

"There  was  a  cavalry  skirmish  a  couple  of  miles  from 
Massaponax  Church — about  twelve  or  fifteen  miles  south 
of  Fredericksburg;  it  was  going  hard  against  us,  and  I 
was  sent  back  to  bring  up  help.  I  was  about  half-way 

229 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

to  the  church  when  I  saw  a  lot  of  dust,  and  I  rode  harder 
— thinking,  you  understand,  it  was  the  advance  of  some 
of  our  troops ;  there  was  so  much  dust  that  I  rode  right 
into  them  before  I  found  that  they  were  Confederates 
that  had  got  round  our  flank  and  were  coming  up  behind 
our  men.  It  was  just  a  scouting  party  .  .  .  more  coming, 
I  learned.  There  wasn't  a  chance  to  get  away,  or  even  to 
fight;  they  had  never  made  any  mistake  about  me  ... 
grabbed  me  the  minute  I  got  in  reach.  I  was  in  my  gray 
uniform,  mind !  They  were  in  a  hurry,  but  they  said  they 
had  time  to  hang  me.  They  just  hauled  off  to  the  roadside 
and  said  they  would  have  a  trial,  anyway — that  they 
always  tried  the  men  they  hanged.  So  they  got  up  a 
drumhead  court  that  wasn't  any  more  a  court  than 
is  our  talking  here.  There  was  a  lot  of  laughing  and 
joking — the  rest  of  the  men  all  sitting  around  on  the 
grass  at  the  side  of  the  road,  holding  their  horses  by  the 
bridles  to  let  them  graze;  some  of  the  men  smoked  their 
pipes — it  was  all  good  fun  for  them. 

* '  Back  around  the  hills  I  could  hear  the  popping  of  the 
carbines  of  the  men  of  my  regiment — that  I'd  left  not 
half  an  hour  before. 

* '  I  didn't  get  five  minutes  of  trial ;  they  asked  me  again 
where  I'd  been  going,  and  I  told  them  again — lying  the 
best  I  knew — that  I  was  only  a  camp  servant  ...  it 
had  got  too  hot  for  me  up  there  at  the  front,  and  I  was 
scared,  and  getting  back  to  the  camp  where  I  belonged. 

"Some  one  yelled,  'He's  a  spy;  look  at  his  clothes.' 

"And  I  turned  on  him  and  says:  'I'm  no  spy.  I'm 
just  a  servant,  an'  these  's  all  the  clothes  I  have — I  don't 
get  a  uniform;  I  got  to  wear  just  what  I  can  find' — all 
that  sort  of  thing.  Anyway,  if  I  wasn't  a  spy,  one  of 

230 


LANDEGON 

'em  said,  I  was  a  'damned  Yankee,  that  had  stole  the 
clothes  off  some  pore  dead  Confederate  soldier.'  And 
they  all  said :  'That's  so,  all  right !  Stole  'em  off  some  pore 
dead  soldier.  He  had  ought  to  be  hung!' 

"The  president  of  the  court  got  up  and  said,  'You're 
guilty,  Yank,  and  it  is  the  sentence  o'  this  court  that  we 
hang  you  by  the  neck  until  you're  dead.' 

"They  all  laughed  at  that,  and  got  up  and  stood  around 
to  see  me  get  hung.  We  all  moved  over  a  hundred  yards 
or  so  to  a  tree,  and  some  one  started  to  climb  up  with  a 
rope — they  had  a  rope,  all  right — and  then  some  one  said 
'they'd  ought  to  have  some  grease  for  the  rope — noose 
wouldn't  slip  good  without  the  rope  was  greased,'  and 
one  of  the  men  was  sent  riding  hard  across  the  fields  to  a 
farm-house  to  get  some.  They  got  the  rope  tied  to  a  limb, 
then  they  kept  showing  me  the  noose  .  .  .  telling  me 
how  I'd  dance  on  air — they  weren't  going  to  tie  my  hands 
and  feet,  they  said;  and  they  danced  and  waved  their 
hands  to  show  me  how  I'd  do. 

"These  weren't  guerrillas;  they  were  regularly  enlisted 
men.  But  it  was  '62,  mind,  and  they  were  a  lot  more 
bitter  in  those  days  than  they  were  later  in  the  war;  but 
I  never  did  see,  before  or  after,  such  ones  as  these. 

"I  had  been  scared  nearly  to  death  up  till  then,  but 
when  they  got  to  talking  like  that  I  got  mad — they  might 
hang  me,  all  right,  but  they  weren't  going  to  torture  me 
that  way  before  I  died.  I  tried  to  pull  away  from  the  fel 
lows  holding  me,  and  I  cursed  them  all,  and  called  them 
murderers  and  cowards,  and  I  told  them  I'd  fight  any 
three  of  them — any  five — any  number  at  once,  if  they 
would  give  me  my  saber  and  pistol,  but  that  I  wouldn't 
be  hung. 

23? 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

"Just  then  the  man  with  the  grease  got  back;  he'd 
only  been  able  to  get  some  butter!  'Don't  waste  good 
butter  hanging  a  damn  Yankee;  string  him  up  without 
greasing  the  rope,  and  be  quick  about  it/  some  one  said. 

11  So  they  dragged  and  lifted  me  onto  a  horse,  and  led 
it  under  the  limb,  and  they  put  the  noose  around  my 
neck.  I  didn't  see  anything  or  think  anything  from  the 
time  I  got  put  on  the  horse,  and  I  didn't  see  that  some 
of  them  were  standing  in  a  little  party  off  to  one  side. 
/Just  then  one  stepped  out  and  said  that  I  was  not  to  be 
hung;  that  I  was  a  brave  man;  and  it  wasn't  so  much 
that  they  didn't  want  me  to  be  hanged,  but  the  other 
fellows  weren't  going  to  do  it ;  I  was  as  much  their  prisoner 
as  I  was  theirs — that  they  hadn't  any  of  them  been  se 
lected  for  the  court  .  .  .  more  of  that  sort  of  thing 
(they  were  from  two  regiments — do  you  understand?); 
and  that  they  had  decided  to  send  me  back  to  the  main 
column  and  have  me  tried  right !  Some  of  the  fellows  drew 
their  revolvers,  and  some  got  on  their  horses,  and  it  looked 
as  if  there  was  going  to  be  a  fight  right  there.  But  they 
talked  it  over — with  me  sitting  on  the  horse,  and  the  rope 
around  my  neck  all  the  time — and  finally  decided  that 
they  would  send  me  on. 

"They  took  the  rope  off,  and  I  began  to  get  some  of 
my  senses  back,  and  I  saw  that  the  man  who  was  to  take 
me  forward  was  a  great,  surly-looking  devil — one  of  them 
that  had  been  so  anxious  to  hang  me;  he  was  standing 
talking  to  his  officer,  and  they  looked  over  at  me,  and  he 
kind  of  smiled  and  nodded  his  head;  I  knew  right  there 
that  he  meant  to  kill  me  on  the  way — was  getting  ordered 
to  just  then. 

"We  started — he  and  I — and  the  others  rode  away. 

232 


LANDEGON 

The  whole  business  hadn't  taken  more  than  twenty  min 
utes,  but  it  was  a  month  to  me.  They  wouldn't  give  me 
a  horse;  the  fellow  rode,  but  I  had  to  run  along  at  the 
horse's  head.  The  horse  he  rode  was  one  of  the  biggest 
I  ever  saw — when  it  walked  I  had  to  trot,  and  when  he 
rode  at  a  trot  I  had  to  run.  I  had  lost  my  hat,  and  the 
sun  hurt  my  head,  and  the  dust  choked  and  blinded  me; 
I  was  so  sick  and  weak — mind  you,  the  reaction  from  such 
fear  is  a  sickening  thing — that  I  staggered  as  I  ran,  and 
the  fellow  kept  leanin'  over  and  prodding  me  with  his 
saber  to  make  me  go  faster;  that  began  to  make  me  mad 
when  I  got  conscious  of  it,  and  I  felt  my  strength  coming 
back  again. 

"I  kept  on  the  off  side  of  the  horse,  so  that  he  would 
have  to  cut  across  with  his  saber  instead  of  down,  when 
the  time  came  for  me  to  try  to  run.  I  can  see  that  road 
now — long  and  straight,  with  the  unfenced  fields  sloping 
down  to  the  road  on  either  side,  and  sumac  bushes  along 
where  the  fences  had  been  before  the  war;  ahead,  the 
road  ran  like  a  tunnel  into  a  big  woods  that  looked  all 
hazy  and  blue.  Beyond  the  woods  a  little  way  was 
Massaponax  Church;  I  made  up  my  mind  that  what  was 
to  be  would  take  place  in  that  woods,  and  I  sort  of  felt 
that  the  Confederate  had  made  up  his  mind  to  end  it  in 
the  woods,  too. 

"Just  then  he  called  to  me:  'Halt,  Yank!  Till  I 
tighten  the  girth — saddle's  slippin'!" 

"He  was  dismounting — you  know,  of  course,  how  a 
man  gets  off  a  horse?  his  left  foot  in  the  stirrup,  and 
swings  his  right  leg  back  over  the  horse — for  just  a  second 
his  back  was  toward  me,  and  at  that  moment  he  dropped 
his  drawn  saber  to  the  ground.  ...  He  died  right  there! 

233 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

"My  three  years'  term  of  enlistment  was  just  about 
up  before  I  got  out  of  the  hospital  at  Portsmouth  Grove, 
Rhode  Island — that  time  I  got  shot  and  left  at  the 
Dews',  remember?" 

There  was  scarcely  a  moment's  pause  in  his  story;  he 
seemed  to  be  hurrying  on  to  efface  something  from  his 
mind  and  mine.  I  scarcely  heard  his  words;  I  could  see 
nothing  but  the  sprawling  figure  that  lay  like  a  blot 
under  a  pall  of  slowly  settling  dust  in  a  long,  straight, 
sunlit  road — a  road  that  ran  like  a  tunnel  into  a  great 
woods  all  blue  with  haze. 

"  Sheridan  was  a  few  miles  west  of  Harper's  Ferry 
when  I  found  him" — so  the  story  was  going  on  when  I 
heard  it  again — "and  when  I  walked  up  to  his  tent  he 
ran  out  and  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder — impulsive, 
like  he  always  was — and  he  said:  'Landegon!  I'm  glad 
you're  back!  I've  got  a  lot  of  work  for  you  to  do !'  And 
then  I  told  him  that  I  wasn't  coming  back  to  him — that 
I  was  through.  Ye  see,  Sheridan  was  now  in  command 
in  the  Shenandoah  Valley,  and  he  had  reorganized  the 
scouts,  and  put  them  on  a  strictly  military  footing,  with 
Major  H.  H.  Young  in  command. 

"Then,  too,  General  Kilpatrick — whose  chief  scout  I 
had  been  for  two  years  before  Sheridan  had  got  me  to 
go  with  him — and  Captain  Northrop  here,  who  now  was 
'Kil's'  chief  scout,  had  both  written  for  me  to  come  to 
them ;  they  were  with  General  Sherman  down  in  Georgia, 
and  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  go.  Sheridan  was  very 
angry — said  something  about  deserting  in  the  face  of 
the  enemy — more  of  that  sort  of  thing — and  turned  and 
walked  away  from  me.  I  never  saw  General  Sheridan 
again. 

234 


LANDEGON 

"I  did  not  march  to  the  sea.  General  Sherman,  with 
'  Kil '  in  command  of  his  cavalry,  was  at  Savannah  before 
I  joined  him  there.  What? — tell  you  of  the  'most  im 
portant,  most  dangerous'  work  I  did  in  the  war?  It 
wasn't  in  the  war — it  was  after  the  war  was  done!" 

He  told  of  a  period  which  history  has  so  abridged 
that  it  is  now  well-nigh  lost  to  men's  minds — a  time  that 
is  dwarfed  by  the  war  just  past,  that  is  overshadowed  by 
the  black  period  of  reconstruction  that  was  to  come. 
Peace  had  been  declared.  But  the  great,  all-wise  Lincoln 
was  dead.  The  one  hand  which  could  have  beckoned 
and  led  the  turbulent  victors  home,  which  would  have 
reached  out  to  guide  and  guard  the  broken,  gloomy 
South,  was  gone.  There  were  weeks  in  the  South  when 
anarchy  reigned. 

For  days  before  there  came  the  inevitable  end  to  the 
Confederacy,  men — bitter,  broken-hearted  men,  who  fore 
saw  the  swift  coming  of  that  end — had  deserted  the  South 
ern  armies,  in  order  that  they  might  never  desert  their 
Cause.  In  twos  and  threes  and  little  bands  they  streamed 
through  the  country,  swearing  to  commence,  from  the 
mountains,  a  guerrilla  warfare  that  should  not  end  until 
they  died. 

Others  with  less  high  principles  joined  them  on  the 
way;  men  who  had  abandoned  all  and  lost  all  to  the  war 
were  now  abandoned  by  the  war,  and  they  stood  bewil 
dered  by  the  double  loss;  they  had  nowhere  to  turn  but 
to  the  weapons  in  their  hands;  they,  too,  fled  for  the 
mountains. 

From  the  Northern  armies,  chiefly  those  in  the  Middle 
South,  hundreds  deserted.  Men  who  would  never  have 
deserted  in  the  face  of  the  enemy,  now,  dreading  months 

235 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

of  inactivity  before  being  mustered  out,  or  for  the  first 
time  permitting  the  longing  for  home  to  come  between 
them  and  discipline,  stole  out  between  the  considerate 
pickets  and,  with  their  arms  in  their  hands  for  protec 
tion  on  the  way,  began  the  long  journey. 

From  the  armies  of  both  sides,  the  dissolute  and  the 
vicious,  the  discouraged  and  unreconciled,  fled  from  peace 
as  from  a  pest;  armed,  skilled  in  war,  calloused  to  war's 
horrors,  they  swarmed  out  over  the  country  and  turned 
it  into  hell. 

Truculent  bands  going  north  met  sullen  parties  coming 
south,  and  they  fought  for  the  sheer  love  of  righting. 
There  was  no  discipline  anywhere;  worse,  there  was  the 
license  and  liberty  that  came  as  a  reaction  from  the 
sudden  removal  of  strict  military  law.  From  simple 
foraging,  in  order  to  live,  it  was  but  a  step  to  pillage  and 
murder. 

Men  who  under  good  officers  had  fought  bravely  in 
the  ranks  now  turned  cowardly  assassins — became  com 
mon  cutthroats  and  thieves.  For  them  there  was  now 
no  North  or  South;  by  twos  and  threes  they  joined  them 
selves  to  partyless  bands  of  marauders  that  turned  aside 
for  nothing  but  more  powerful  bands.  Dejected,  paroled 
Confederates,  making  their  best  way  south  to  their  ruined 
homes;  buoyant  Federal  deserters  going  north — blue  or 
gray,  it  was  all  one  to  these  bandits;  they  robbed  and 
killed  on  every  hand. 

And  into  this  land  of  lurking,  ignominious  death,  John 
Landegon,  alone,  except  for  little  black  Ben,  rode  for  three 
hundred  terrible  miles. 

The  distracted  Federal  government,  at  last  heeding 
the  persistent  rumors  of  organized  guerrilla  bands  in  the 

236 


LANDEGON 

Blue  Ridge,  demanded  authentic  information,  and  Lan- 
degon  was  chosen  by  Kilpatrick  to  find  out  the  truth. 

In  the  tent  with  General  Kilpatrick  when  he  gave 
Landegon  the  order  was  a  negro  boy  whom  Landegon 
had  picked  up — or,  rather,  who  had  picked  up  Landegon 
—at  Barnsville,  South  Carolina.  He  had  pleaded  to  be 
taken  North;  and  Landegon,  unable  to  care  for  him  him 
self,  had  taken  him  to  Kilpatrick,  whose  body-servant 
he  had  become.  But  the  boy's  admiration  for  Landegon 
had  never  swerved;  he  heard  the  order  that  was  to  send 
Landegon  away  from  him — out  of  his  life — and  he  sprang 
forward,  and  with  all  the  abandon  of  his  emotional  race  he 
begged  and  pleaded  to  be  taken  along. 

"Doan  leave  me,  Marse  Landegon,"  he  cried.  "Y' 
saaid  y'  would  take  me  when  yo'  went  Norf,  an'  now 
you're  goin'  to  leave  little  Ben,  an'  I'll  never  see  yo' 
agaain.  Take  me  with  yo',  Marse  Landegon — take  me 
Norf  with  yo'!" 

General  Kilpatrick  nodded. 

"Take  him,  John;  you're  to  go  as  a  Confederate  officer 
returning  to  Maryland — it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  your 
story  to  have  your  servant  along." 

That  night  the  two  rode  out  of  Lexington  on  their  way 
to  the  Blue  Ridge  Mountains. 

There  followed  days  of  steady  riding  over  and  around 
and  between  mountains — always  mountains. 

Now  for  miles  along  some  wind-swept  range  crest  from 
which  on  either  hand  it  seemed  that  the  whole  world  had 
wrinkled  itself  into  endless  chains  upon  chains  of  moun 
tains.  Now  through  some  valley — scarce  a  rift  in  the 
heaped-up,  tree-clad  walls.  Nights  when  they  slept  under 
the  stars,  solemn,  lonely  nights,  such  as  come  only  in  a 

237 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

waste  of  mountains;  nights  when  the  boy  sobbed  in  his 
sleep  from  the  loneliness,  and  from  homesickness  for  his 
"cousins,"  and  for  the  South  he  was  leaving  behind. 

For  the  most  part  Landegon's  skill  and  watchfulness 
kept  them  out  of  grave  peril,  but  there  was  once  when 
they  nearly  met  the  end.  Darkness  was  coming  on,  and 
they  had  obviously  mistaken  the  road;  the  road  they  were 
on  led  up  and  ever  up  the  mountain-side,  until  they  were 
above  the  evening  mists  of  the  valley.  They  passed  a 
barn,  and  a  few  yards  farther,  topping  a  steep  rise,  came 
suddenly  upon  a  house  close  by  the  roadside.  On  the 
porch  and  in  the  yard  were  a  dozen  men,  waiting,  with 
their  guns  across  their  arms ;  to  have  hesitated  or  to  have 
turned  to  run  would  have  meant  certain  death.  There 
were  several  faded  blue  uniforms  among  the  butternut 
and  gray;  it  was  one  of  the  cutthroat  bands.  Landegon 
rode  forward  to  the  fence;  he  asked  for  supper;  the  men 
avariciously  eyed  the  fine  horses,  and  half  a  dozen  lounged 
down  to  the  fence  and  gathered  round  him.  He  dis 
mounted  coolly  and  asked  for  a  lantern  that  he  might 
find  feed  for  the  horses.  It  completely  disarmed  the  sus 
picions  of  the  men;  one  of  them  brought  the  lantern 
and  walked  beside  Landegon  down  the  road  toward  the 
barn.  At  the  top  of  the  steep  grade  he  struck  down  the 
man,  and  he  and  Ben  rode  for  their  lives — the  drop  in 
the  road  saved  them  from  the  volley  that  passed  over 
their  heads. 

They  had  trouble  in  Maryland  at  a  ferry,  but  they 
braved  it  down;  and  at  last  the  futile  ride  came  to  an  end; 
futile,  for  there  was  nothing  found,  no  organized  resist 
ance  to  the  Union.  The  war  was  over. 


JOHN    BEALL,  PR  I V  ATE  ER  SM  AN 

IN  Toronto,  Canada,  one  September  day  in  1864,  two 
men,  rounding  a  street  corner  from  opposite  directions, 
met  suddenly  face  to  face,  stared  in  astonishment  for  a 
moment,  then  warmly  clasped  hands,  and  turned  into  a 
near-by  hotel.  Captain  John  Beall  thus  met  the  man 
whom  he  had  least  expected  to  meet — Bennett  Burley, 
one  of  his  old  privateersmen,  the  man  who  now  was  about 
to  become  second  in  command  in  the  historic  raid  on 
Lake  Erie. 

When  they  had  shut  the  door  of  Beall's  room,  "Burley," 
said  Beall,  slowly,  "I  want  you.  I  want  you  for  my 
lieutenant.  My  old  plan  at  last — my  big  chance.  I  am 
to  capture  the  Michigan,  free  the  Johnson's  Island  pris 
oners,  burn  Sandusky,  Cleveland,  Buffalo — all  the  rest! 
You  know  the  old  plans.  Will  you  come?" 

Burley  nodded.  "I  am  with  you,"  he  said.  "When 
do  we  begin?"  The  plans,  Beall  explained,  were  not  yet 
complete,  but  that  very  night  he  was  to  confer  with 
"Captain  Carson,"  and  the  final  details  were  to  be  ar 
ranged.  Until  then  there  was  time  for  a  good  old  talk. 
Since  leaving  his,  Beall's,  command,  what  had  he  and 
Maxwell  done?  How  came  he  to  be  in  Canada? 

And  so  Burley  told  how  he  had  privateered  on  the 
Potomac  and  the  Chesapeake  until  May  i2th,  when  his 
partner,  John  Maxwell,  had  been  killed  at  Stingray  Point 

239 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

in  a  fight  with  negro  troops  that  were  removing  the 
torpedoes  that  he  and  Maxwell  had  planted.  For  him 
self,  since  then,  a  Yankee  prison,  Fort  Delaware,  until 
he  swam  out  of  it  through  a  drain  pipe  into  the  river! 
And  now,  Captain  John  Beall,  what  is  the  story  of  your 
year? 

Much  of  Captain  Beall's  story  needed  no  detailed  ex 
planation  to  Bennett  Burley,  for  Beall's  had  been  the 
parent  organization  from  which  Burley's  and  Maxwell's 
had  sprung.  They  had  been,  on  the  Potomac  and  the 
Chesapeake,  what  Mosby  was  beginning  to  be  on  land, 
what  Raphael  Semmes  in  the  Alabama  already  was  upon 
the  sea — rangers,  partisans,  privateers.  The  Confed 
erate  government  by  its  commissions  had  made  their 
acts  legitimate;  it  had  furnished  them  with  arms,  and 
paid  them  for  their  prizes  (only);  the  young  officers 
had  to  find  their  own  men,  their  boats  and  food.  Burley 
and  Maxwell  had  been  two  of  the  nine  men  with  whom 
Captain  Beall  had  begun  his  career.  It  was  to  the  story 
of  Beall's  achievements  and  adventures  after  he  and 
Maxwell  had  left  him  that  Burley  listened  eagerly  that 
September  afternoon  in  the  Toronto  hotel. 

Beall  told  of  the  cutting  of  the  submarine  telegraph 
cable  under  the  Chesapeake;  of  the  destruction  of  the 
lamps  and  machinery  of  lighthouses  (notably  that  of 
Cape  Charles);  of  the  capture  of  ship  after  ship,  all  un 
armed  vessels,  these,  surprised,  taken  without  the  firing 
of  a  shot.  One  night  they  captured  three  small  vessels; 
the  next,  a  big  schooner,  the  Alliance,  loaded  with  sutler's 
supplies — the  richest  prize  they  ever  took.  They  had  had 
a  bad  time  getting  her.  A  terrible  storm  was  raging — 
the  equinoctial — a  heavy  sea  running.  ...  He  had  had 

240 


JOHN    BEALL 

eighteen  men  that  night,  in  two  little,  open  boats — the 
Raven  and  the  Swan.  .  .  .  He  thought  every  minute 
that  they  would  be  swamped.  The  Swan  was  in  command 
of  his  lieutenant,  Roy  McDonald.  .  .  .  McDonald  tried 
to  board  from  the  windward  side;  the  Swan  was  dashed 
against  the  Alliance,  the  tiller  broken,  and  McDonald 
was  washed  overboard,  but  the  men  got  him  back,  and 
they  rowed  around  to  the  Raven,  and  both  boarded  the 
Alliance  from  the  lee  side.  It  was  such  a  storm  that  the 
Alliance  had  anchored;  such  a  storm  that  attack  seemed 
an  impossibility ;  and  her  captain  and  mates  were  playing 
checkers  in  the  cabin  when  he  and  his  men  burst  in  on 
them.  .  .  .  Next  night  they  went  out  from  the  Alliance 
and  took  three  sloops;  they  stripped  them  of  what  was 
aboard — not  much;  scuttled  them,  and  set  them  to  drift, 
sinking,  out  to  sea.  The  prisoners  they  brought  back 
to  the  Alliance,  and  the  following  night  McDonald  and  his 
men  started  with  all  the  prisoners,  about  twenty,  overland 
for  Richmond.  He,  Beall,  and  his  men  tried  to  sail  the 
Alliance  through  the  blockade  and  into  the  Plankatank 
River,  from  whence  they  could  transport  the  cargo  to 
Richmond.  A  Federal  gunboat  was  anchored  a  mile 
below  the  river,  and  that  had  flustered  their  pilot,  who  had 
run  them  aground  at  the  river's  mouth.  There  was  just 
time  to  get  a  small  part  of  the  cargo  ashore  before  day 
light.  .  .  .  The  gunboat  began  to  come  up,  firing  as  she 
came.  He  set  fire  to  the  Alliance — the  richest  prize  they 
ever  took  I—and  she  burned  to  the  water's  edge.  Even 
the  little  of  her  cargo  that  they  saved  brought  them  a 
tidy  sum  in  Richmond. 

From  the  Northern  newspapers  that  regularly  came 
through  the  lines  they  learned  that  they  were  making 

16  241 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

a  great  stir  in  the  North;  the  papers  were  hysterical  in 
their  demands  that  "the  pirates  of  the  Chesapeake"  be 
immediately  captured.  They  found  afterward  that  three 
regiments  of  infantry,  a  battalion  of  artillery,  and  ten  gun 
boats  had  been  sent  to  capture — eighteen  men !  But  they 
did  not  know  it  then,  and  went  gaily  back  to  the  old 
stand — Mathews  County,  Tangier  Sound,  and  the  coast  of 
Accomac.  They  walked  straight  into  an  ambush.  Mc 
Donald  and  two  men  were  captured,  and  the  rest  of 
them  had  the  narrowest  of  escapes. 

After  six  weeks  in  Richmond,  waiting  for  the  peninsula 
to  "cool,"  they  stole  back,  and  the  very  first  night  cap 
tured  a  schooner.  It  was  their  last  prize.  He  had  sent 
most  of  his  men  ashore  to  hide  in  a  thicket  until  night; 
the  waiting  Federals  quietly  gobbled  these,  and  that 
night  came  out  in  small  boats  and  surprised  him  and  the 
men  on  the  schooner.  The  Northern  newspapers  of  the 
next  day  called  him  the  "notorious  Captain  Beall,"  and 
gleefully  told  of  his  capture  "  without  the  firing  of 
a  shot,"  and  the  whole  press  had  clamored  for  his 
hanging. 

He  and  his  fourteen  men  had  been  sent  in  irons  to 
Fort  McHenry.  Irons !  They  had  had  all  the  perquisites 
of  pirates.  But  their  guards  had  been  kind;  acting 
without  orders,  they  had  removed  the  irons  for  a  time 
each  day,  that  the  prisoners  might  exercise.  But  when 
they  had  come  to  him  to  remove  the  irons,  "Leave  them 
alone,"  he  had  said,  "until  your  government  sees  fit  to 
remove  them!"  and  he  had  worn  his  irons  for  forty- two 
days.  They  would  all  certainly  have  been  hanged  for 
pirates  if  the  news  of  their  plight  had  not  reached  Rich 
mond.  President  Davis  had  nobly  stood  by  them: 

242 


JOHN    BEALL 

' 'Privateers,  Confederate  officers  and  men — not  pirates! 
Hang  them,  and  that  very  day  fourteen  of  your  men  and 
two  officers  shall  swing  in  Richmond!"  And  so  they 
had  been  treated  as  prisoners  of  war,  and  later  exchanged, 
and  he  had  fought  in  the  trenches  to  help  drive  back 
Sheridan's  cavalry,  only  six  miles  from  Richmond.  Then 
his  old  wound  had  begun  to  trouble  him  again  greatly, 
and  he  had  had  to  give  up  active  service. 

All  that  has  been  told  thus  far  of  John  Beall  had  been 
brought  about  by  one  bullet.  The  wound  never  entirely 
healed;  Destiny  saw  to  that;  Destiny  had  fired  the  bullet, 
which  went  on  and  on  and  marked  out  a  broad,  plain 
course  that  led  straight  to  the  first  spy's-gallows  to  be 
erected  in  New  York  City  since  Nathan  Hale's  eighty- 
nine  years  before.  But  for  that  bullet  received  in  his 
first  fight  (and  only  a  skirmish  at  that!)  John  Beall 
might  have  gone  on  throughout  the  war  as  an  infantryman 
of  the  Second  Virginia  Regiment. 

From  Richmond — he  went  on,  to  Burley — he  had 
come  to  Canada.  "Captain  Carson"  and  Captain  Cole 
had  already  gone  far  in  the  plan  which  he  had  submitted 
to  President  Davis  the  year  before;  the  plan  had  not 
been  deemed  feasible  then,  and  so  he  had  gone  to  the 
Chesapeake.  But  now  the  plan  was  to  be  tried,  and  here 
he  was  in  command  of  the  fighting  end  of  it,  and  here  was 
Burley  too,  just  in  time  to  become  second  in  command 
in  this  glorious  opportunity!  All  that  they  had  bagged 
for  the  Confederacy  thus  far  had  been  but  rabbits  and 
reed-birds  as  compared  with  this — this  was  to  be  big 
game!  Beall  and  Burley,  Cole  and  "Captain  Carson," 
would  be  on  the  next  page  of  history!  Thus  they  talked 
and  planned,  and  thus  in  the  Toronto  hotel  the  Sep- 

243 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

tember  afternoon  waned,  and  the  time  drew  near  to  meet 
" Captain  Carson." 

The  expected  meeting  took  place  that  night.  "  Captain 
Carson"  was  none  other  than  Jacob  Thompson,  formerly 
Secretary  of  the  Interior  under  President  Buchanan, 
now  the  Confederacy's  chief  secret  agent  in  Can 
ada. 

Burley  was  told,  or  gathered  from  the  talk,  all  that 
thus  far  had  been  done.  He  learned  that  Captain  Charles 
H.  Cole,  formerly  of  General  Forrest's  command,  sup 
plied  with  thousands  of  dollars  by  the  Confederate  gov 
ernment,  through  Jacob  Thompson,  had  been  living  for 
weeks  at  the  West  House  in  Sandusky,  in  the  guise  of 
a  prodigal  young  Philadelphia  millionaire.  With  his 
easy,  affable  manner  and  his  apparently  unlimited  wealth 
Cole  had  had  no  difficulty  in  making  acquaintances  whom 
he  had  used  as  so  many  stepping-stones  to  cross  over  to 
Johnson's  Island  and  the  Michigan,  which,  watchdog-like, 
guarded  it.  He  had  entertained  at  lavish  dinners  and 
sumptuous  banquets,  and  at  each  succeeding  one  more 
and  more  of  the  Federal  officers,  who,  in  turn,  had  enter 
tained  him  on  board  the  Michigan  and  on  the  island. 
He  explored  the  Michigan  from  stem  to  stern.  On  the 
island  he  learned  that  the  garrison,  originally  nine  hun 
dred  strong,  had,  in  the  security  of  the  Michigan's  pro 
tection,  been  weakened  by  no  fewer  than  five  detach 
ments  for  duties  on  the  mainland.  From  the  prisoners 
(to  some  of  whom  he  had  of  course  revealed  his  true  char 
acter)  he  learned  that  there  already  existed  an  organiza 
tion  for  an  attempt  at  escape,  which  thus  far  had  been 
thwarted  only  by  the  presence  of  the  Michigan.  The 
Michigan,  then,  above  all  else,  was  the  stumbling-block. 

244 


JOHN    BEALL 

Then  John  Beall  had  come  to  Canada,  and  the  plan 
had  quickened  into  vigorous  life. 

At  the  meeting  that  night  in  the  Toronto  hotel  the 
final  details  were  arranged.  Cole,  in  Sandusky,  was  to 
give  at  the  West  House  his  most  elaborate  entertain 
ment — a  wine  party.  Part  of  his  guests  were  to  be  his 
secret  agents,  the  rest  every  Federal  officer  who  could 
be  induced  to  attend.  Those  officers  who  could  not  be 
made  sufficiently  drunk  were  to  be  drugged ;  to  be  drugged 
likewise  was  the  officer  who  remained  in  command  of 
the  Michigan.  Of  the  crew  of  the  Michigan  more  than 
one  member  was  in  Charles  Cole's  employ. 

Beall  and  his  men  were  to  take  passage  on  the  Philo 
Parsons,  a  small  steamer  making  daily  trips  between 
Detroit  and  Sandusky.  Before  they  should  reach  San- 
dusky  they  were  to  capture  the  Philo  Parsons.  A  signal, 
or  message,  from  Cole  in  Sandusky,  but  two  short  miles 
away,  would  acquaint  the  prisoners  on  Johnson's  Island, 
already  warned,  that  all  was  ready;  the  prisoners  then 
would  show  a  signal  to  Beall.  The  approach  of  the 
familiar  Philo  Parsons  would  arouse  no  notice;  she  would 
be  alongside  before  the  Michigan's  bewildered  sailors, 
hesitating  in  the  absence  of  their  officers,  would  take 
action;  in  an  instant  Beall  and  his  men  would  be  aboard 
and  at  the  sailors'  throats.  A  cannon-shot  would  be  fired 
through  the  officers'  quarters  on  the  island,  and  at  this 
signal  the  twenty-five  hundred  waiting  prisoners  would 
rise  against  their  surprised  guards  and  by  sheer  weight 
of  numbers  overpower  them. 

At  the  signal-gun  from  the  Michigan  the  Federal 
officers  on  shore  would  be  made  prisoners.  Some  of  Cole's 
agents,  scattered  throughout  the  city,  would  cut  every 

245 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

telegraph-wire;  others  were  waiting  to  seize  the  arms  of 
the  National  Guard.  The  location  of  every  stable  in 
the  city  had  long  since  been  ascertained,  so  that  when 
the  escaping  prisoners  landed  they  would  find  arms  and 
horses  with  which  to  fight  their  way  through  the  militia 
across  the  State  to  Wheeling  and  thence  into  Virginia. 
The  treaty  with  Canada  permitted  the  United  States 
but  one  war-ship  on  the  Lakes ;  thus  the  captured  Michigan, 
manned  by  many  of  the  freed  Confederates,  would  steam 
out  of  Sandusky  Bay,  master  of  the  Lakes,  and  with  the 
Lakes'  cities  at  its  mercy.  That  was  the  plan  to  which 
Bennett  Burley  listened  that  September  night;  it  seemed 
a  plan  that  could  not  fail.  The  attempt,  at  this  last 
meeting,  was  set  for  the  night  of  Monday,  September  igth. 
On  Monday  morning  the  Philo  Parsons,  with  Burley 
aboard,  steamed  down  the  Detroit  River.  At  Sandwich, 
on  the  Canadian  side,  Beall  and  two  of  his  men  boarded 
the  steamer,  as  passengers.  At  Amherstburg,  Ontario, 
at  the  mouth  of  the  river,  sixteen  men — farmers,  mechan 
ics,  small  tradesmen,  or  so  they  appeared — came  aboard, 
paid  their  fares,  and  quietly  mingled  with  the  other 
passengers.  The  only  piece  of  baggage  in  the  whole  party 
was  one  old,  roped  trunk,  singularly  heavy.  The  Philo 
Parsons  steamed  out  into  the  lake  and  headed  south 
eastward  straight  for  Sandusky.  At  mid-afternoon  the 
captain  had  been  set  ashore  for  the  night  at  his  home  on 
Middle  Bass  Island;  the  monotonously  pleasant  trip 
began  to  draw  toward  its  end;  at  four  o'clock  the  last 
regular  stop  before  Sandusky  had  been  made  at  Kelleys 
Island,  eight  miles  from  the  port  of  destination.  When 
the  Philo  Parsons  was  well  on  the  way  once  more,  Beall 
and  several  of  his  men  strolled  into  the  pilot-house;  the 

246 


JOHN    BEALL 

man  at  the  wheel  found  himself  looking  into  the  muzzle 
of  a  revolver.  At  that  same  moment  three  men  ap 
proached  W.  O.  Ashley,  ship's  clerk,  now  the  acting 
captain,  and  leveled  revolvers  at  him.  The  few  passengers 
present  watched  with  staring  eyes ;  not  one  of  them  moved 
or  spoke;  not  a  woman  screamed;  they  seemed  spell 
bound.  There  was  a  strange,  uneasy  pause,  as  though 
the  actors  had  forgotten  their  parts.  Burley  hurried  up. 
Behind  him,  in  a  small,  unarmed  mob,  tramped  his  men. 
Burley  stepped  up  to  Ashley  and  tapped  him  on  the 
breast  with  a  long-barreled  revolver :  ' '  Get  into  that  cabin 
or  you  are  a  dead  man!  One — two — thr —  The  clerk 
whisked  into  the  cabin,  and  they  shut  him  in.  Through 
a  small  window  he  watched  them  bring  out  on  deck  the 
heavy  trunk,  unrope  it,  and  distribute  its  contents — • 
big  revolvers,  two  apiece,  and  glittering  new  hatchets, 
terrible  weapons  in  the  hands  of  strong,  fierce  men.  Then 
the  Confederates,  quietly,  at  revolvers'  points,  rounded 
up  the  dumfounded,  terrified  passengers — eighty  of  them, 
nearly  half  of  whom  were  women — marched  them  into 
the  cabin,  and  set  a  guard  over  them.  It  was  all  ridicu 
lously  easy.  The  Philo  Parsons  was  captured! 

The  ship  was  put  about  and  steamed  in  a  great  half- 
circle  back  to  Middle  Bass  Island.  As  she  drew  into  the 
wharf  the  Island  Queen,  Sandusky  to  Toledo,  was  seen 
approaching,  and  in  a  few  minutes  made  fast  alongside. 
The  prisoners  breathlessly  watched  from  the  cabin  win 
dows.  Suddenly  from  the  Philo  Parsons'  higher  decks 
John  Beall,  heading  his  boarding-party,  leaped  down  on 
the  Island  Queen.  The  Queen  was  crowded  to  her  full 
capacity;  twenty  or  twenty-five  Federal  infantrymen 
(unarmed),  en  route  to  Toledo  to  be  mustered  out,  swelled 

347 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

the  number  of  her  passengers.  There  was  an  instant 
bedlam  of  shrieks  and  cries  as  Beall  and  his  men,  gleam 
ing  hatchets  and  revolvers  in  hand,  charged  into  the 
crowd.  There  was  a  moment  of  half -incredulous  resist 
ance;  shots  were  fired — the  Queen's  engineer  wounded; 
then  an  almost  instantaneous  surrender.  Within  five 
minutes  the  Island  Queen's  trembling  passengers  were 
being  herded  into  the  cabin .  and  into  the  hold  of  * '  the 
pirate  ship."  After  fuel  had  been  got  aboard,  the  pris 
oners  were  set  ashore. 

Night  had  come,  but  with  it  a  moon  almost  at  the 
full.  By  its  light  the  marooned  passengers  silently 
watched  the  Philo  Parsons  and  the  little  Island  Queen, 
lashed  together,  steam  out  across  the  moonlit  lake 
farther  and  farther  away;  saw  them  separate;  watched, 
till  the  Island  Queen,  helplessly  drifting,  slowly  sinking, 
at  last,  before  their  eyes,  went  down.  The  Philo  Parsons, 
her  crew  hot  with  their  victories,  steamed  on  alone  to 
attack  the  Michigan. 

It  was  still  long  until  the  hour  for  the  attack.  The 
Philo  Parsons,  her  freight  thrown  overboard,  her  decks 
cleared  for  action,  at  half-speed  slowly  sailed  nearer  and 
nearer  to  Johnson's  Island.  The  most  trying  hour  had 
come,  the  dread  inaction  before  battle,  the  hour  of 
thinking.  Beneath  the  faint  glow  in  the  sky  were  the 
unseen  lights  of  Sandusky ;  somewhere  among  them  would 
be  the  yet  more  brilliantly  lighted  windows  from  which 
would  be  coming  the  sound  of  revelry — Cole's  wine  party 
in  full  swing.  Beall,  alone  in  the  extreme  bow,  could 
almost  believe  he  heard  the  drunken  laughter.  Dead 
ahead  hung  the  low  clustered  lights  of  the  Michigan  and 
Johnson's  Island;  one  by  one  they  began  to  wink  out; 

248 


JOHN    BEALL 

faintly,  over  the  waters,  came  from  the  Michigan  "  Eight 
bells" — midnight!  Cole's  signal  was  long  overdue.  Beall 
strained  his  eyes,  watching,  watching.  Next  moment  it 
would  surely  come!  The  Philo  Parsons  crept,  all  but 
drifting,  nearer* 

There  came  the  sound  of  some  one  running.  Beall  did 
not  take  his  eyes  off  the  island.  "What  is  it?"  he  said. 

' '  Captain  Beall ! ' '  Burley  cried,  hoarsely.  ' '  John !  The 
men  have  mutinied!  Only  two  of  them  will  go  on." 

"Watch  here!"  Beall  answered.  Almost  staggering,  he 
went  into  the  cabin.  His  men  awaited  him,  sheepishly, 
sullenly.  The  signal  had  failed,  ergo,  the  plot  was  dis 
covered;  it  would  be  madness  to  go  on,  they  said.  He 
raged  at  them,  pleaded  with  them,  cursed  them;  then, 
white  with  anger  and  disappointment,  "Write  out  a 
memorial  of  your  cowardice  and  treachery;  sign  it!"  he 
thundered.  They  meekly  gathered  beneath  the  swinging 
lamp  and  wrote  John  Beall's  vindication: 

On  board  the  Philo  Parsons, 

September  20,  1864. 

We,  the  undersigned,  crew  of  the  boat  aforesaid,  take  pleasure  in 
expressing  our  admiration  of  the  gentlemanly  bearing,  skill,  and  courage 
of  Captain  Beall  as  a  commanding  officer  and  a  gentleman,  but,  be 
lieving  and  being  well  convinced  that  the  enemy  is  informed  of  our 
approach,  and  is  so  well  prepared  that  we  cannot  possibly  make  it  a 
success,  and,  having  already  captured  two  boats,  we  respectfully 
decline  to  prosecute  it  any  further. 

In  the  gray  dawn  the  Philo  Parsons  steamed  out  once 
more  from  the  Canadian  shore;  abandoned,  she  steered 
a  wavering,  crazy  course;  slower  and  slower  as  her  fires 
died  down,  lower  and  lower  as  the  water  rose  in  her  hold ; 
and  then,  slowly  settling,  at  last  gave  a  plunge  and  was 
gone.  The  raid  on  Lake  Erie  was  ended. 

249 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

The  signal  from  Johnson's  Island  had  not  been  given 
because  the  plot  had  indeed  failed,  just  as  all  such  plots 
usually  fail — through  some  one's  treachery.  On  the 
morning  of  the  ipth  Captain  Carter,  who  had  returned 
to  the  Michigan,  one  day  earlier  than  expected,  received 
a  telegram  from  the  officials  of  Detroit  which  apprised 
him  of  the  whole  plot. 

Between  three  and  four  o'clock  that  afternoon,  almost 
at  the  very  time  the  Philo  Parsons  was  being  captured, 
Captain  Cole  was  made  a  prisoner  in  Sandusky.  He  had 
made  an  admirable  spy,  but  he  was  a  craven  prisoner. 
Almost  immediately  he  confessed,  told  all,  voluntarily 
incriminated  his  Sandusky  accomplices.  In  February, 
1866,  a  Brooklyn,  New  York,  judge  quashed  the  charges 
against  him  and  set  him  free. 

Burley,  believing  himself  safe  in  Canada,  attempted 
no  concealment.  He  was  arrested  and  turned  over  to 
the  Federal  government.  Like  Cole,  he  was  imprisoned, 
and,  like  Cole,  eventually  released. 

But  what  of  John  Beall?  John  Beall  was  hanged. 
He  went  mad — the  madness  of  fanaticism,  the  madness 
of  John  Wilkes  Booth,  the  madness  of  John  Brown, 
and  for  that  he  hanged.  What  kinder  palliation  can  be 
made  for  him  ?  What  else  other  than  madness  could  have 
turned  John  Beall — wealthy,  studious,  retiring,  he  whose 
dream  had  been  to  enter  the  ministry — into  a  tram- 
wrecker,  an  intending  murderer  of  hundreds  of  men  and 
women  and  little  children  whose  only  offense  was  that 
they  were  Northerners? 

After  the  failure  on  Lake  Erie  some  new  campaign 
had  to  be  devised.  A  train  on  the  New  York  and  Erie 
Railroad  was  to  be  derailed — wrecked,  captured,  between 

250 


JOHN    BEALL 

Dunkirk  and  Buffalo.  As  for  the  attempt  to  execute 
this  plan,  the  story  is  quickly  told.  Nearly  thirty  men 
were  to  have  taken  part,  but  when  the  moment  for  the 
attempt  arrived  only  four  were  at  the  rendezvous — Colonel 
Martin,  in  command,  Lieutenant  Headley,  George  S. 
Anderson  (escaped  prisoners — Raider  Morgan's  men), 
and  John  Beall.  Once  they  failed,  twice  they  failed,  to 
tear  up  part  of  the  track  five  or  six  miles  west  of  Buffalo- 
bungling,  futile  attempts.  On  the  afternoon  of  Friday, 
December  i6th,  the  party  (now  five  in  number)  tried 
for  the  third  time. 

Heavy  snow  had  fallen.  They  drove  in  a  sleigh  to 
the  selected  spot  and  regained  the  tools  which  they  had 
hidden  there,  a  sledge-hammer  and  a  cold-chisel — the 
same  inadequate  tools.  Again  the  quarter-hours  passed 
in  ineffectual  efforts  to  displace  a  rail.  Dusk  fell;  the 
train  was  almost  due.  Then  Colonel  Martin  discovered 
a  spare  rail  close  by,  and  laid  it  across  the  track.  The 
whistle  of  the  approaching  train  sounded;  there  was  no 
time  to  make  the  obstruction  secure;  time  only  to  hide 
in  the  thicket  and  watch.  The  engine  screamed  for 
"brakes";  sparks  flew  from  the  screeching  wheels;  the 
train  slid  up  to  the  obstruction,  struck  it,  and  came  in 
safety  to  a  stop.  Trainmen  with  lanterns  leaped  from 
the  train.  The  conspirators  fled  to  their  sleigh,  scrambled 
in,  and  set  the  horses  galloping  into  the  darkness.  The 
trainmen  threw  the  rail  to  one  side,  and  the  train  went 
on.  It  seems  almost  necessary  to  apologize  for  having 
told  such  a  story! 

Perhaps  the  conspirators  gave  up  the  idea  of  any 
further  attempt,  perhaps  only  deferred  it,  but  that  night 
all  five  of  them  left  Buffalo.  At  Niagara  City,  Colonel 

251 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

• 

Martin,  Lieutenant  Headley,  and  the  fifth  wrecker,  an 
unnamed  soldier,  walked  across  the  Suspension  Bridge 
to  the  comparative  safety  of  the  Canadian  shore.  Beall 
and  seventeen-year-old  George  Anderson  remained  be 
hind  in  the  railroad  station  to  await  the  arrival  of  the 
train  from  Toronto,  which  was  to  be  boarded  by  the 
others  at  Clifton,  across  the  river.  There  was  a  long 
wait.  The  boy,  Anderson,  fell  asleep;  near-by,  Beall,  too, 
was  nodding.  They  posed  as  strangers  to  each  other. 
The  train  arrived.  Beall  hurried  aboard,  but  the  boy 
did  not  follow,  and  he  dashed  back  into  the  station. 
There  Anderson  still  slept  as  soundly  as  a  child.  A  few 
moments  were  still  left  before  the  train  should  start, 
and  Beall  sat  down  close  to  Anderson,  planning  to  arouse 
him  stealthily  without  disclosing  to  others  that  they  two 
were  friends.  But  two  policemen  observed  the  stealthy 
movement;  they  drew  a  hasty  conclusion,  and,  acci 
dentally,  made  an  important  arrest. 

So  swiftly  and  so  unexpectedly  did  the  police  act 
that  Anderson,  still  sleeping,  was  dragged  from  the 
bench,  and  Beall  was  seized  before  he  could  raise  a 
hand. 

The  police  accused  them  of  being  escaped  Confederate 
prisoners  from  Point  Lookout. 

"I  admit  that."  (Anderson  gaped  in  astonishment.) 
"We  are  escaped  Confederate  prisoners  from  Point  Look 
out,"  Beall  said.  If  only  he  might  be  sent  to  Point 
Lookout  and  there  lose  his  identity  among  the  prisoners 
of  war!  Perhaps  he  might  have  succeeded,  but  Ander 
son,  the  boy  for  whose  sake  John  Beall  had  gone  back 
from  safety,  turned  State's  evidence! 

Only  a  young,  frightened  boy — so  John  Beall  made 

252 


JOHN    BEALL 

excuses  for  him  in  one  of  the  last  letters  which  he  ever 
YxTote.     He  fully  and  freely  forgave  Anderson. 

From  the  very  first  everything  was  against  Beall.  He 
asked  that  General  Roger  A.  Pry  or,  a  fellow-prisoner  in 
Fort  Lafayette,  might  act  as  his  counsel.  The  request 
was  denied.  His  lifelong  friend  and  college  room-mate, 
Daniel  B.  Lucas,  a  lawyer,  hurried  from  Richmond  to 
Toronto,  and  from  thence  wrote  to  General  Dix,  Com 
mander  of  the  Department  of  the  East,  begging  that  he 
be  given  a  passport  to  New  York  so  that  he  might  conduct 
the  defense  of  his  friend.  The  letter  remained  unanswered. 

Beall  wrote  to  Richmond,  asking  for  documents  to  prove 
that  he  had  acted  on  the  authority  of  the  Confederate 
government;  his  letters  were  intercepted  and  became  a 
part  of  the  prosecution's  evidence  against  him.  A  letter 
from  Jacob  Thompson  in  Canada,  inclosing  a  statement 
by  Colonel  Martin,  was  not  admitted  in  evidence  by  the 
commission;  yet  in  this  statement  Colonel  Martin  as 
serted  that  the  real  purpose  (known  only  to  himself  and 
Beall)  of  the  attempted  train-capture  was  to  rescue  from 
their  guards  certain  Confederate  prisoners  en  route  from 
Johnson's  Island  to  Fort  Warren. 

Five  witnesses  appeared  for  the  prosecution;  for  the 
defense  there  was  not  one.  Confronted  by  such  witnesses 
as  Anderson,  Ashley  of  the  Philo  Parsons,  and  one  of 
the  Philo  Parsons'  passengers,  Beall's  position  was  des 
perate  indeed. 

For  counsel,  a  prominent  New  York  City  lawyer, 
James  T.  Brady,  generously  came  forward  and  undertook 
the  defense — generously,  since  by  law  he  was  not  per 
mitted  to  receive  any  compensation  for  his  services.  The 
trial,  before  a  military  commission  of  six  officers  and  the 

253 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

Judge- Advocate,  was  begun  on  February  i,  1865,  in  Fort 
Lafayette,  New  York  Harbor;  it  dragged  itself  out 
through  four  weary  days.  No  attempt  was  made  to 
deny  that  the  acts  had  been  committed.  The  capture 
of  the  Philo  Parsons  and  the  Island  Queen  had  been 
lawful  military  operations;  as  for  the  attempt  to  wreck 
the  passenger- train,  that — said  the  counsel  for  the  de 
fense — was  for  the  purpose  of  robbing  the  express-car, 
a  crime  covered  by  the  State's  laws,  hence  no  concern 
of  a  military  commission.  The  Judge- Advocate  seized 
the  delicate  logic  of  the  counsel  for  the  accused  and  tore 
it  limb  from  limb. 

On  February  8th  the  commission  met  and  reported 
their  finding:  John  Y.  Beall,  charged  with  acting  as  a 
spy  and  in  violation  of  the  laws  of  war,  was  guilty  on 
every  specification  in  each  charge.  General  Dix  approved 
the  sentence  and  decreed  that  "on  February  i8th  John 
Y.  Beall  shall  be  hanged  by  the  neck  until  he  is  dead." 

Of  all  the  strange  inconsistencies  in  John  Beall's  story, 
perhaps  the  strangest  is  that  of  the  untiring  efforts  of 
the  Northerners  who  joined  with  Beall's  friends  in  the 
attempt  to  save  him  from  the  gallows.  Congressmen 
and  Senators — fourteen  from  Ohio,  seventeen  from  New 
York,  among  them  James  A.  Garfield,  Fernando  Wood, 
and  Samuel  Cox,  ninety-one  in  all,  representatives  of  all 
but  five  of  the  Federal  States — joined  with  such  men  as 
Ainsworth  R.  Spofford,  Librarian  of  the  Congressional 
Library;  John  W.  Garrett,  president  of  the  Baltimore 
and  Ohio  Railroad;  Thaddeus  Stevens;  Governor  John 
Andrew  of  Massachusetts;  ex-Postmaster-General  Mont 
gomery  Blair,  scores  more,  in  the  vain  efforts  to  obtain 
from  Abraham  Lincoln  the  clemency  of  a  commuted 

254 


JOHN    BEALL 

sentence  for  John  Beall.  There  were  midnight  inter 
views,  long,  grave  conferences,  the  appeals  of  women, 
personal  friends  of  the  President;  every  argument,  every 
influence,  every  pressure,  until  at  last  the  President  closed 
his  doors  and  sent  out  the  knell  of  hope:  "I  will  not 
interfere!" 

Year  after  year  a  story  has  crept  into  print  (may  this 
be  the  last  time !)  of  how  the  gallows-death  of  John  Beall 
caused  Abraham  Lincoln's  assassination.  As  Damon  and 
Pythias,  so  John  Wilkes  Booth  and  John  Yeats  Beall— 
thus  the  lie  begins;  schoolmates,  comrades  in  young  man 
hood,  ''they  rode,  walked,  dined,  drank,  and  intrigued 
together."  (They  never  met!)  And  then  the  war,  and 
John  Beall's  death-sentence.  On  the  night  before  the 
execution  John  Wilkes  Booth,  Washington  McLean,  John 
P.  Hale  (Senator  from  New  Hampshire),  and  John  F. 
Forney  (on  the  tale's  authority)  drove  at  midnight  to 
the  White  House.  The  President  was  awakened,  and 
Booth,  kneeling  at  Abraham  Lincoln's  feet  and  clasping 
his  knees,  implored  him  to  spare  Beall's  life.  At  last 
Lincoln,  with  tears  streaming  down  his  face,  took  Booth 
by  both  hands  and  promised  Beall's  pardon.  But  Beall 
was  hanged,  for  Seward  had  threatened  to  resign  (so 
runs  the  merry  story)  if  Lincoln  meddled. 

Booth's  conspiracy  long  antedated  Beall's  sentence. 
Booth  never  was  in  the  White  House.  John  W.  Forney 
asserted  that  he  never  met  Booth,  and  publicly  branded 
the  story  as  an  utter  fabrication.  And  Booth  himself 
unconsciously  strikes  off  the  head  of  the  lie  with  the 
words  of  his  diary  (now  in  the  possession  of  the  War 
Department)  under  date  of  April  2ist :  "I  knew  no  private 
wrong.  I  struck  for  my  country,  and  that  alone." 

255 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

Two  men  became  John  Beall's  biographers;  the  one, 
because  he  had  seen  John  Beall  live;  the  other,  because 
he  had  seen  him  die.  Daniel  B.  Lucas  wrote  of  his  college 
room-mate  at  the  University  of  Virginia— his  idolized 
friend.  Isaac  Markens,  of  New  York  City,  as  a  young 
boy,  received  a  permit  to  witness  the  execution;  since 
then  he  has  given  months  of  effort  to  perpetuate  the 
memory  of  John  Beall.  It  is  he  who  published  for  the 
first  time  the  details  of  the  efforts  of  the  Northerners  to 
save  Beall.  It  is  Isaac  Markens  who  disproved,  finally, 
the  oft-published  story  of  Booth's  motive  for  assassinating 
Abraham  Lincoln.  It  is  from  Isaac  Markens's  verbal 
narrative  that  many  details  have  been  drawn  for  this 
account  of  John  Beall's  last  hour. 

A  respite  was  given  Beall  until  February  24th  while 
the  commission  reviewed  the  case  to  correct  a  technical 
error.  His  mother  thus  was  given  time  to  come  from 
Virginia.  Of  their  meeting  he  said:  "I  saw  the  moment 
she  entered  the  cell  that  she  could  bear  it,  and  that  it 
made  no  difference  in  her  whether  I  died  upon  the  scaffold 
or  upon  the  field."  She  could  bear  it,  but  must  she? 

"A  pardon,  my  son — is  there  no  hope?" 

"No,  mother,"  he  answered,  sadly,  "they  are  thirsting 
for  my  blood.  There  will  be  no  pardon."  Thus  they 
parted. 

Beall  was  removed  to  Fort  Columbus,  Governor's 
Island,  the  appointed  place  of  execution.  The  last  night 
came.  He  passed  it  in  mental  calm,  but  in  physical 
anguish  from  an  old  affliction — toothache.  He  wished 
for  laudanum  to  still  the  pain,  but  would  not  ask  for  it, 
he  said,  for  fear  of  being  misunderstood.  "If  they  but 
knew,"  he  laughed,  to  one  of  his  old  friends  who  watched 

256 


JOHN    BE ALL 

the  night  through  with  him,  "I  could  have  opened  a  vein 
at  any  time"  (he  tapped  his  left  shoe  as  he  spoke)  "if  I 
had  wished  to  do  so!"  In  the  shoe  were  two  tiny  saws 
made  of  steel  watch-springs.  A  rescue  had  long  been 
carefully  planned;  it  was  thwarted  only  by  the  fields  of 
floating  ice  that  surrounded  the  island.  The  very  ele 
ments  seemed  to  work  against  him. 

There  was  another  way  of  escape ;  he  could  have  bar 
gained  himself  free.  Instead,  "Tell  my  friends  in  -  — ," 
he  said,  "that  every  secret  of  which  I  am  the  depositary 
dies  with  me!" 

Then  at  last  came  Friday,  the  24th.  The  hour  had 
been  set  for  2  p.  M.  It  was  a  perfect  winter's  day,  crisp, 
not  cold,  with  a  sky  of  glittering  blue;  over  all  was  bril 
liant  sunshine.  Passes  had  been  given  with  a  prodigal 
hand;  a  great  crowd  was  present — some  hundreds — 
many  of  them  women.  A  ferry-boat  hovered  close  inshore, 
her  decks — crowded  as  for  an  excursion — overlooking  the 
parade-ground . 

The  great  inner  gates  of  Fort  Columbus  swung  open, 
and  a  long  procession  marched  slowly  out :  the  Provost- 
Marshal,  his  aides,  the  prisoner,  a  minister,  an  escort 
of  one  hundred  soldiers.  A  military  band  blared  a 
funeral  march.  John  Beall  marched  with  the  high-held 
head  of  a  soldier,  kept  step  to  the  music  with  the  soldiers 
around  him.  A  long  military  cape,  thoughtfully  thrown 
over  his  shoulders  by  a  kindly  officer,  covered  his  pinioned 
arms  to  the  tips  of  his  gloved  fingers.  On  his  head  al 
ready  was  the  black  cap,  rolled  up  from  his  face,  turban 
fashion;  its  long  point  and  silken  tassel,  blown  by  the 
wind,  tossed  jauntily. 

Full  in  the  face  of  the  gallows  and  the  great  crowd 
17  257 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

about  it,  the  procession  came  to  a  sudden  halt.  The 
band  stopped  playing.  For  nine  terrible  minutes  they 
stood  in  unexplained,  apparently  causeless  delay.  The 
crowd  murmured  loudly  with  pity  and  horror.  Twice 
the  prisoner  spoke  to  the  minister  at  his  side:  ''How 
beautiful  the  sun  is!  I  see  it  for  the  last  time,"  and, 
"Tell  my  mother  that  you  saw  her  son  die  without 
craven  fear  and  without  bravado." 

The  order  at  last,  and  the  band  struck  up  its  march 
again;  the  procession  moved  slowly  to  the  gallows;  the 
officials  and  the  prisoner  mounted  it.  The  prisoner  re 
spectfully  rose  from  his  chair  as  the  adjutant  began  to 
read  in  a  loud  voice  the  charges  and  specifications  and 
the  sentence.  The  time  had  come !  But  no,  the  adjutant 
drew  out  another  paper  and  again  read  loudly;  it  was 
the  long,  sermon-like  manifesto  of  General  Dix.  At  the 
first  words  of  the  manifesto,  Beall  coolly  drew  a  chair 
forward  with  his  foot  and  sat  down  again.  His  serenity 
in  the  face  of  death  makes  this  bitter  story  beautiful. 
The  crowd  murmured  again,  and  from  beneath  the 
gallows  the  executioner  (a  deserter,  to  be  freed  for  the 
performance  of  this  office)  cried  loudly,  "The  Captain 
wishes  to  be  swung  off  quick;  cut  it  short,  cut  it  short!" 
"Brutal  eagerness"  the  newspapers  later  called  it;  it  was 
meant  for  kindness  and  mercy.  The  reading  came  at 
last  to  an  end.  Then  John  Beall  stood  up,  and  in  a  clear, 
firm  voice  spoke  for  the  last  time: 

"I  protest  against  the  execution  of  this  sentence.  It 
is  a  murder.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  except — I  die 
in  the  service  and  defense  of  my  country!" 

From  behind  him  came  the  sword-flash  that  was  the 
signal. 


TIMOTHY   WEBSTER:    SPY 

CIVILIANS  fell  in  the  great  war.  They  fought  in  an 
army  that  was  without  flags  or  uniforms,  without  stirring 
music  or  flashing  arms;  an  army  ever  in  an  enemy's 
country,  surrounded  and  outnumbered.  Theirs  was  an 
army  of  individuals;  in  little  groups,  in  couples,  or  alone, 
they  fought  against  cities  and  communities,  against  whole 
armies,  in  one  great,  silent,  unending  conflict  of  wit  and 
subterfuge  and  cunning.  When  they  fell,  their  death  was 
not  a  swift  blotting  out  as  in  battle,  but  it  was  made  a 
ceremony  of  horror  and  shame;  for  the  men  and  women 
of  this  civilian  army  were  spies — soldiers  set  apart  from 
soldiers  by  the  stern  rules  of  war;  sowers,  whom  we,  the 
complacent  reapers,  ''damn  with  faint  praise";  patriots, 
sacrificing  their  innermost  selves  to  a  military  necessity 
that  is  as  old  as  war  is  old,  that  has  been  justified  since 
the  day  when  Moses  "by  commandment  of  the  Lord" 
sent  his  twelve  spies  into  the  land  of  Canaan. 

Several  months  before  Sumter  was  fired  on,  the  Civil 
War  had  begun  for  Timothy  Webster.    At  no  time  after 
the  actual  outbreak  of  war  was  he  more  liable  to  the 
fate  of  a  spy  than  at  Perrymansville,1  Maryland,  early 
in  February,  1861,  when  he  quietly  took  up  his  regular 
duties  as  detective  of  the  private  agency  of  Allan  Pinker- 
ton,  of  Chicago.    At  the  outset  his  visit  to  Perrymansville 
1  Now  Ferryman 
259 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

was  commonplace  enough  and  quite  within  his  routine — 
merely  to  expose  the  suspected  plot  of  malcontents  to 
damage  railroad  property.  And  then  of  a  sudden  the 
situation  became  of  national — more,  of  world-wide — im 
portance,  and  for  a  time  Allan  Pinkerton  and  Timothy 
Webster  held  History  in  the  making. 

Had  not  the  Maryland  plot  to  assassinate  Abraham 
Lincoln,  while  en  route  through  Baltimore  to  his  inaugu 
ration,  been  discovered  and  frustrated,  what,  to-day, 
would  be  the  history  of  the  American  nation?  And  to 
Timothy  Webster,  Allan  Pinkerton  thus  generously  ac 
credits  the  major  portion  of  the  achievement: 

He,  amongst  all  the  force  who  went  with  me,  deserves  the  credit  of 
saving  the  life  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  even  more  than  I  do. 

Webster  at  this  time  was  a  man  of  forty ;  good-looking, 
tall,  broad-shouldered,  of  great  physical  strength  and 
endurance,  skilled  in  all  athletic  sports,  a  good  shot, 
strong-willed,  and  absolutely  fearless.  His  face  indicated 
a  character  of  firmness  and  amiability,  of  innate  force 
and  gentle  feeling,  of  frankness  and  resolution;  a  thought 
ful,  self-contained  man  of  an  appearance  at  once  to  at 
tract  attention.  Such  was  Timothy  Webster  as  Allan 
Pinkerton  describes  him. 

As  a  boy  of  twelve  he  had  emigrated  with  his  parents 
from  Sussex  County,  England,  to  Princeton,  New  Jersey; 
at  thirty-two,  some  latent  craving  for  excitement  drew 
him  from  his  trade  of  machinist  to  become  a  policeman 
at  the  World's  Crystal  Palace  Exposition  in  New  York 
City;  there  he  was  introduced  to  Allan  Pinkerton,  and 
with  him  went  to  Chicago. 

Pinkerton's  shrewd  estimate  of  Webster's  probable 

260 


TIMOTHY    WEBSTER 


TIMOTHY   WEBSTER 

ability  as  a  detective  was  more  than  correct;  with  ex 
perience  he  developed  into  a  star  agent  of  the  force,  so 
that  when  the  call  came  from  S.  M.  Pel  ton,  president 
of  the  Philadelphia,  Wilmington,  and  Baltimore  Rail 
road,  asking  protection  for  his  railroad  property,  Webster 
was  detailed  to  Perrymansville,  which  was  believed  by 
Allan  Pinker  ton  to  be  one  of  the  chief  danger-points. 

In  1 86 1  President  Felton's  road  was  the  only  direct 
line  connecting  New  York  City  and  the  New  England 
States  with  Washington;  that  this  railroad  should  be 
kept  unbroken  at  this  critical  time  was  of  the  utmost 
importance.  It  was  readily  discovered  that  a  plot  ex 
isted  among  the  Maryland  secessionists  to  cut  the  line 
by  burning  the  bridges;  but  the  first  hint  of  the  real  pur 
pose  of  the  conspirators  came  to  Pinkerton  in  a  letter 
from  the  master  machinist  of  the  railroad,  Mr.  William 
Stearns;  he  wrote: 

I  am  informed  that  a  son  of  a  distinguished  citizen  of  Maryland  said 
that  he  had  taken  an  oath  with  others  to  assassinate  Mr.  Lincoln 
before  he  gets  to  Washington. 

This  letter  was  received  on  February  loth — the  day 
before  Mr.  Lincoln  left  his  home  in  Springfield,  Illinois, 
and  started  on  his  eastern  tour  en  route  for  Washington. 

Pinkerton  sent  for  more  of  his  men,  and  redoubled  his 
efforts  to  learn  something  tangible  of  this  or  any  other 
plot.  Time  passed  rapidly.  Such  a  conspiracy,  well 
organized,  did  exist — he  learned  enough  in  Baltimore  to 
convince  him  of  that;  also — through  Stearns — that  a 
branch  of  the  organization  was  at  Perrymansville  in  the 
guise  of  a  cavalry  company.  Webster,  who  had  been 
withdrawn  from  there,  was  hurried  back,  and  within 

26; 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

twenty-four  hours  had  been  enrolled  as  a  member  of  the 
company. 

Then,  handicapped  by  the  shortness  of  time,  he  made 
a  supreme  effort  to  gain  the  confidence  of  the  inner 
circle  of  conspirators,  who  alone  were  in  the  principal 
plot.  Few  men  could  have  succeeded  as  Webster  did, 
few  have  such  a  personality  as  his.  By  nature  he  was 
of  a  quiet,  reserved  disposition,  seldom  speaking  unless 
spoken  to,  and  never  betraying  emotion  or  excitement 
under  any  pressure  of  circumstances;  but,  with  the  need, 
his  reserve  would  vanish,  and  he  would  become  a  genial, 
jovial,  convivial  soul,  with  a  wonderful  faculty  for  mak 
ing  every  one  admire  and  like  him.  In  a  few  cunningly 
worded  sentences  he  would  rouse  the  blood  of  his  hearers 
until  it  fairly  boiled  with  indignation  against  the  Yankees 
and  Abe  Lincoln. 

"  Webster's  talent  for  sustaining  a  role  of  this  kind 
amounted  to  positive  genius;  in  a  lifetime  of  detective 
experience  I  have  never  met  one  who  could  more  readily 
adapt  himself  to  circumstances,"  Allan  Pinkerton  has 
written. 

It  was  with  such  a  weapon  that  Webster  was  making 
his  great  fight. 

The  tour  of  the  President-elect  was  rapidly  drawing 
to  its  end.  Webster,  consummate  actor,  was  making 
haste  slowly;  grave,  fiery,  serious,  boisterous — each  at 
the  golden  time,  he  played  with  a  masterful  hand  upon 
the  excited,  high-strung  conspirators.  From  the  first  his 
efforts  had  been  covertly  directed  against  the  cavalry 
company's  officers:  they  were  in  the  secret,  or  no  one  was. 
At  last,  one  morning  after  drill,  the  captain  with  much 
secrecy  asked  him  to  call  that  night  at  his  house,  "and 

262 


TIMOTHY   WEBSTER 

say  nothing  about  it."  How  the  time  must  have  dragged 
till  the  appointed  hour !  But  with  the  first  step  he  made 
into  a  room  whose  windows  were  hung  with  heavy  quilts 
and  blankets  he  knew  that  success  had  come  at  last. 
Webster  was  introduced  to  three  strangers  in  the  group, 
members  of  the  league  from  Baltimore;  then  took  his 
place  at  the  table  with  the  rest  and  listened — joining  in 
now  and  then  with  a  word  or  two — as  they  discussed 
the  plans  for  the  assassination  of  Abraham  Lincoln  at 
the  Calvert  Street  Depot  in  Baltimore,  on  February  23d. 
The  plans  were  fully  matured  except  for  the  selection  of 
the  person  to  fire  the  shot. 

The  story  of  how  Allan  Pinkerton  placed  his  proofs  of 
the  conspiracy  before  Lincoln  in  the  Continental  Hotel 
in  Philadelphia,  on  the  night  of  February  2ist;  of  the 
spiriting  of  Mr.  Lincoln  out  of  Harrisburg  next  evening 
back  to  Philadelphia  in  a  private  train — while  Harrisburg, 
with  telegraph-wires  secretly  grounded,  lay  cut  off  from 
all  communication  with  the  outside  world;  of  the  passage 
through  Baltimore  in  the  dead  of  night;  and  of  the  safe 
arrival  of  the  President-elect,  accompanied  by  Allan 
Pinkerton  and  Colonel  Lamon,  in  Washington  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  day  he  was  expected  in 
Baltimore,  has  been  told  again  and  again;  but  Timothy 
Webster's  part  is  known  to  but  few. 

Just  two  months  later  Webster  was  back  in  Maryland ; 
Sumter  had  been  fired  upon;  the  Sixth  Massachusetts 
Regiment  had  been  attacked  in  the  streets  of  Baltimore; 
the  war  had  begun.  On  April  2ist  several  prominent  men 
of  Chicago  intrusted  the  Pinkerton  Agency  with  the  de 
livery  of  some  important  communications  to  President 
Lincoln,  and  Pinkerton  selected  Timothy  as  his  mes- 

263 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

senger.  The  papers  were  sewed  into  his  coat  collar  and 
his  vest  lining,  and  he  set  out. 

Washington  was  to  all  intents  a  beleaguered  city; 
every  railroad  bridge  about  Baltimore  had  been  burned 
by  the  order  of  the  Baltimore  authorities;  tracks  were 
torn  up,  telegraph  wires  cut,  and  the  Potomac  blockaded ; 
even  the  wagon  roads  were  picketed;  the  country-side 
swarmed  with  spies  and  zealots  of  the  Southern  cause; 
practically  all  communication  with  the  North  was  de 
stroyed,  and  no  one  might  pass  in  the  direction  of  Wash 
ington  or  Baltimore  without  a  rigid  examination. 

At  the  Susquehanna  the  train  could  go  no  farther, 
and  Webster,  with  the  few  passengers,  was  rowed  across 
the  river  to  Havre  de  Grace;  from  thence  each  man  had 
to  shift  for  himself.  For  fifty  dollars  the  driver  of  a  cov 
ered  road-wagon  agreed  to  take  Webster  and  an  English 
man,  who  said  he  was  bearer  of  despatches  to  the  British 
consul,  as  passengers  to  Baltimore.  At  Perrymansville 
they  were  halted  by  a  cavalryman  in  the  uniform  of 
Webster's  old  company,  but  a  stranger  to  him;  before  they 
could  be  questioned  or  searched  a  second  cavalryman 
rode  up,  and  to  Webster's  great  relief  recognized  him,  and 
hailed  him  genially,  and,  what  was  better,  unhesitatingly 
gave  a  pass  to  Baltimore.  So  impressed  was  the  English 
man  that  as  they  journeyed  along  he  grew  more  and  more 
friendly,  until,  at  length,  led  on  by  Webster,  he  confided 
that  he  too  was  engaged  in  the  cause  of  the  South,  and 
bore  with  him  important  papers  to  Southern  sympathizers 
living  in  Washington. 

Baltimore — and  the  two  were  boon  companions;  they 
spent  the  night  there,  and  Webster,  meeting  many  of 
the  acquaintances  of  two  months  previous,  had  no  difH- 

264 


TIMOTHY    WEBSTER 

culty,  with  their  ready  help,  in  procuring  another  wagon 
to  carry  them  on  to  Washington.  All  morning  they  drove, 
and  still  the  spy  could  find  no  opportunity  to  betray  his 
companion.  But  as  they  ate  their  dinner  at  the  Twelve- 
Mile  House,  with  the  end  of  their  journey  almost  in  sight, 
the  chance  came.  Across  the  long  table  from  them  sat  a 
man  whom  Webster  recognized  and  whom  he  knew  to  be 
a  Union  man ;  fortunately  the  recognition  was  not  mutual. 
The  meal  ended;  the  unsuspecting  Englishman  was  got 
out  of  the  way,  and  then  Webster  hurriedly  told  this 
acquaintance  who  he  was  and  what  he  wished  done.  The 
man  galloped  away  toward  the  city.  Presently  decoy 
and  decoyed  leisurely  drove  on  again — toward  a  trap;  at 
the  outskirts  of  Washington  they  were  halted. 

"No  one  is  permitted  to  enter  the  city  without  being 
examined,"  politely  explained  the  lieutenant  of  the  guard. 
The  Englishman  saw  the  indignant  Webster  locked  into 
a  cell;  then,  in  spite  of  his  protests,  he  too  was  led  away 
and  locked  up.  In  a  few  minutes  Webster  was  released, 
and  he  hurried  into  the  city,  direct  to  the  White  House. 
President  Lincoln  with  amused  interest  watched  him 
take  off  his  coat  and  vest,  rip  them  open,  and  remove  the 
letters.  When,  at  the  President's  request,  Webster  re 
turned  the  following  morning,  he  received  the  thanks  of 
the  President,  not  alone  for  the  letters  he  had  brought, 
but  for  the  arrest  of  the  Englishman,  whose  despatches, 
President  Lincoln  said,  were  of  the  greatest  importance, 
and  revealed  menacing  disaffection  in  Washington  itself. 
He  then  gave  Webster  several  messages,  and  asked  that 
they  be  telegraphed  as  soon  as  he  should  reach  an  office 
from  which  they  could  be  sent  in  safety.  One  of  these 
telegrams  was  to  George  B.  McClellan,  president  of  the 

265 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

Eastern  Division  of  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  Railroad, 
who  had  just  been  appointed  major-general  of  volunteers 
in  Ohio ;  the  other  message  was  a  request  that  Allan  Pink- 
erton  come  to  Washington  to  confer  with  the  President 
and  the  Secretary  of  War  on  the  question  of  organizing  a 
military  Secret  Service. 

Fate  from  the  very  first  seems  to  have  marked  this 
man,  Timothy  Webster,  for  a  great  war  spy.  At  every 
turn  his  destiny  flung  down  before  him  some  new  strand, 
which  he  unhesitatingly  picked  up  and  twisted  into  the 
rope  of  circumstance  which  one  day  was  to  hang  him; 
the  temporary  laying  aside  of  his  trade  to  become  a  special 
policeman  during  the  gaiety  of  the  Exposition ;  the  chance 
introduction  there  to  Allan  Pinkerton,  the  master  who 
was  to  train  him  in  his  craft;  the  simple  assignment  to 
guard  railroad  property,  by  which  he  had  been  swiftly 
shifted  into  the  heart  of  a  great  conspiracy  and  to  the 
position  of  an  all  but  military  spy;  then,  while  still  in 
private  employ — a  mere  carrier  of  letters — he  had  been 
forced  by  chance,  in  the  case  of  the  Englishman,  again 
to  turn  informer  and  spy  for  his  government;  and  now, 
by  the  order  of  the  President  of  the  United  States,  he 
bore  the  very  telegram  which  was  to  result  in  the  estab 
lishment  of  that  service  in  which  he  was  to  perish. 

Allan  Pinkerton,  under  the  nom  de  guerre  ''Major  E.  J. 
Allen,"  organized  and  commanded  the  first  military 
Secret  Service  of  the  Federal  army.  Timothy  Webster, 
without  question,  followed  his  chief  and  former  employer 
into  the  new  field;  within  a  few  days  he  had  begun  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  careers  of  which  there  is  record 
in  that  remarkable  service.  Almost  from  the  first  he  occu 
pied  that  most  dangerous  position  known  in  warfare,  the 

266 


TIMOTHY    WEBSTER 

double  spy,  the  man  who  serves  two  masters,  who  carries 
water  on  both  shoulders.  He  served  the  South  with  the 
knowledge  of  the  North;  he  gave  that  he  might  in  greater 
measure  take;  he  betrayed,  with  permission,  the  Federal 
government  in  little  things,  in  order  that  his  opportuni 
ties  in  the  Confederacy  might  be  for  a  more  complete 
betrayal.  He  was  all  things  to  all  Southern  men — an 
actor  of  a  thousand  roles;  unerringly  he  read  character 
almost  at  a  glance,  shrewdly  chose  his  r61e — his  bait — 
as  an  angler  selects  his  fly  from  the  many  in  his  fly-book, 
and  cunningly  made  his  cast  of  that  personality  which 
bid  fair  to  entice  his  quarry  into  trustfulness;  wherever 
he  would  he  hooked  his  man. 

In  Alabama  they  would  have  made  him  colonel  of  a 
regiment;  in  Baltimore  he  was  a  member  of  the  "Knights 
of  Liberty";  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  Alabama,  Mississippi, 
Virginia,  Maryland — he  was  known  to  the  foremost  citi 
zens  of  the  principal  cities,  and  to  the  commanding  officers 
of  camps  and  fortifications  and  armies,  as  an  ardent 
Confederate  who  was  doing  important  work  for  the 
Cause;  until  at  last,  as  his  position  strengthened  and  as 
those  persons  who  vouched  for  him  were  men  of  greater 
influence,  he  became  a  trusted  emissary  of  the  Confed 
erate  War  Department  in  Richmond.  There  was  no 
more  dangerous  Union  spy  within  the  Confederacy. 

His  connection  with  the  Lincoln  assassination  con 
spirators  was  the  chief,  almost  the  sole,  means  of  accom 
plishing  this  result. 

For  the  most  part  the  members  of  the  plot  were  men  of 
position  and  of  wide  acquaintance  throughout  the  South; 
and  Webster,  who  was  believed  to  have  fled  to  avoid 
arrest,  as  had  many  of  the  others,  now  went  to  those  of 

267 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

his  fellow-conspirators  who  had  returned  to  Perrymans- 
ville  and  Baltimore.  He  did  not  ask  for  their  help- 
instead  : 

"I  am  going  to  attempt  to  get  south,"  said  he;  "per 
haps  I  can  do  you  some  favor  there — at  least  carry  letters 
to  where  they  may  be  safely  posted ;  perhaps  bring  others 
back  to  you." 

And  they  gladly  gave  him  letters  to  be  posted,  or  to 
be  delivered  in  person  in  those  cities  to  which  he  was 
going — letters  that  in  effect  said,  "Open  sesame;  this, 
our  friend,  is  already  proved."  And  the  Confederates 
of  Memphis  and  Bowling  Green  and  Louisville,  Mobile 
and  Nashville,  and  later  of  Richmond  itself,  welcomed 
him,  and  he  charmed  them  until  he  was  introduced  among 
their  friends  and  loaded  down  with  letters  to  be  delivered 
when  he  should  go  north  again.  He  was  working  within 
a  circle,  operating  an  endless  chain ;  it  seems  very  simple- 
credentials  for  any  time  or  place!  But  all  these  letters, 
whether  going  south  or  coming  north,  stopped  in  transit 
at  the  headquarters  of  Allan  Pinker  ton,  and  were  read, 
and  their  contents  copied,  before  being  resealed  and  al 
lowed  to  continue  on  their  journey.  There  was  no  limit 
to  his  capacity  for  gaining  information  for  the  Union. 
Yet  each  trip  that  he  made  was  like  a  cumulative  poison 
—only  a  question  of  repetition  to  result  in  certain  death. 

Timothy  Webster  served  the  Union  for  just  twelve 
months;  and  the  record  of  each  month  would  in  itself 
furnish  ample  material  for  an  entire  story. 

In  a  Pennsylvania  city — Pittsburgh — he  was  mis 
taken  for  a  Confederate  spy  and  nearly  lynched  by  a 
hot-headed  mob,  from  which  he  was  saved  only  by  the 
opportune  arrival  of  Allan  Pinkerton.  Together,  backed 

268 


TIMOTHY    WEBSTER 

against  the  wall,  with  drawn  revolvers,  they  held  off  the 
mob,  until  the  chief  of  police  rescued  and  identified  them. 

In  Tennessee,  on  his  very  first  trip  into  the  Confed 
eracy,  he  incurred  the  suspicion  of  a  member  of  a  com 
mittee  of  safety — of  which  each  community  was  well 
supplied  to  investigate  and  question  strangers.  He  was 
" shadowed"  from  city  to  city;  all  his  skill  could  not 
enable  him  to  shake  off  this  man,  a  morose,  sinister- 
looking  fellow  remarkably  like  a  stage  villain,  but  of  a 
cunning  equal  to  Webster's  own. 

The  acquaintances  which  Webster  formed,  both  civil 
and  military,  by  aid  of  his  letters  of  introduction,  seemed 
only  to  augment  the  stranger's  suspicion;  it  was  one  of 
those  strange  cases  of  intuition,  of  instinctive  reading 
of  character;  Webster  could  not  but  admire,  profes 
sionally,  the  man's  ability,  dangerous  as  he  had  become. 

As  long  as  Timothy  continued  to  work  his  way  south 
the  man  seemed  content  only  to  follow,  but  at  last  the 
time  came  for  him  to  return  to  the  North  with  all  the 
information  which  he  had  set  out  to  gain.  He  took  a 
train  for  Chattanooga,  though  he  did  not  wish  to  go  there ; 
he  dared  not  start  north  until  the  man  had  been  disposed 
of.  It  almost  seemed  as  though  his  mind  had  been  read; 
the  man — he  had  entered  the  same  car  with  Webster — 
was  now  for  the  first  time  in  company  with  another. 
The  train  had  gone  but  a  few  miles  when  a  lady  came 
and  sat  down  beside  Webster.  Presently,  without  looking 
at  him,  she  whispered:  "I  am  no  enemy  to  a  Union  man. 
I  have  overheard  two  men  say  that  if  you  try  to  go  north 
they  will  'get'  you;  they  believe  you  are  a  Yankee  spy." 
He  whispered  his  thanks,  but  she  did  not  speak  to  him 
again.  At  a  way-station  he  got  off  and  walked  up  and 

269 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

down  beside  the  train.  The  two  men  also  got  off,  and  he 
felt  them  stealthily  watching. 

"Conductor,"  he  said,  in  a  loud  voice,  "tell  me  a  good 
hotel  in  Humboldt;  I  must  stop  there  several  days." 

The  train  reached  Humboldt  in  a  deluge  of  rain. 
Webster  and  those  passengers  alighting  there  scurried 
for  the  shelter  of  the  station;  almost  at  the  door  there 
stood  a  heap  of  baggage,  and  Webster  darted  behind  it; 
he  saw  his  men — blinded  by  the  dashing  rain,  and  certain 
that  he  was  ahead  of  them — run  across  the  street  and  into 
the  hotel.  He  had  intended  to  take  his  old  train  the 
moment  it  should  start;  but  when  it  was  about  to 'pull 
out,  a  north-bound  train  arrived,  and  when  it  left  Hum 
boldt  for  the  north  Timothy  Webster  was  on  board.  He 
never  saw  the  two  men  again. 

Back  in  Baltimore  once  more,  Webster,  his  position 
greatly  strengthened  by  the  results  of  his  southern  trip, 
assumed  the  part  of  a  gentleman  of  wealth  and  leisure; 
he  lived  in  the  best  suite  of  rooms  at  the  best  hotel,  and 
drove  a  fine  span  of  horses.  There  was  a  special  purpose 
for  assuming  such  a  role. 

Baltimore,  though  under  martial  law,  and  with  several 
of  her  leading  citizens  confined  in  Fort  McHenry — because 
of  their  too  openly  expressed  Southern  sentiments — was 
still  dangerously  active  in  secret  aid  to  the  Confederacy. 
Webster,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Lincoln  conspiracy,  was 
expected  to  reach  the  leaders  of  whatever  organizations 
might  be  there.  He  gave  blockade-running  as  his  osten 
sible  business,  and  was  thus  enabled,  while  making  Balti 
more  his  headquarters,  to  travel  about  through  lower 
Maryland,  where  he  added  many  useful  dupes  to  his  staff 
of  Confederate  assistants,  and  gained  much  information 

270 


TIMOTHY   WEBSTER 

for  Pinkerton  in  Washington.  Dangerous  though  it  was, 
necessity  compelled  him  to  report  frequently  to  Finkerton 
and  receive  his  instructions.  At  last  there  occurred  the 
very  thing  that  was  most  to  be  feared:  he  was  observed 
going  stealthily  into  the  Secret  Service  headquarters ;  and 
next  day,  in  Baltimore,  as  he  stood  in  the  center  of  a 
group  of  friends  gathered  about  the  bar,  the  door  opened, 
and  there  entered  a  man  known  to  all  present  as  a  brawler, 
a  ''rough" — Zigler  by  name — one  of  the  leaders  in  the 
attack  on  the  Massachusetts  troops. 

"Ha!  Webster!"  he  cried.  "I  have  been  looking  for 
you!"  Then,  turning  to  the  group:  "This  man  has  fooled 
us  in  Baltimore  long  enough.  He  is  a  spy."  There  was 
a  moment  of  absolute  stillness,  then  half  a  dozen  voices 
cried:  "He's  drunk!  Put  him  out!  We  know  Webster!" 

"Ask  him  where  he  was  last  night,"  Zigler  sneered,  and 
there  was  silence  again — a  silence  of  involuntary  sus 
picion. 

"In  Washington,"  Webster  said,  calmly.  "These 
gentlemen  all  knew  I  had  been  there." 

"I  saw  him" — Zigler  pointed  his  finger  dramatically — 
"go  into  the  office  of  the  chief  of  the  Yankee  detective 
force!" 

Webster  stared  at  him  coldly.     "You  lie!"  he  said. 

And  then  there  occurred  the  most  fortunate  thing  that 
could  have  happened ;  Zigler  sprang  furiously  at  Webster, 
who  struck  him  a  swift,  clean-cut  blow  in  the  face  which 
sent  him  rolling  on  the  floor,  and,  as  he  leaped  up  with 
a  knife  in  his  hand,  Webster  drew  a  revolver  and  stopped 
the  man  before  he  could  take  a  step. 

"Go!"  he  said,  in  a  tense,  even  voice;  "go,  or  I  will 
surely  kill  you!"  Without  a  word  Zigler  turned  and  left 

271 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

the  room.  A  dozen  hands  clapped  Webster  on  the 
shoulder,  his  trusting  friends  cheered  him  enthusiastically. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  sorrowfully,  "I  cannot  imagine 
what  I  have  done  to  that  man  that  he  should  try  to 
injure  me  so." 

But  so  far  from  injury,  the  affair  greatly  increased  the 
respect  and  admiration  in  which  he  was  held.  In  a  short 
time  he  was  invited  to  join  the  "Knights  of  Liberty." 

This  organization,  together  with  the  mummeries  of  a 
secret  society,  combined  a  deadly  intent  against  the  Union 
and  some  very  effective  work  for  the  Confederacy.  Web 
ster  was  initiated  with  much  ceremony. 

Before  the  meeting  was  over  he  was  astounded  to  learn 
the  extent  to  which  this  organization  had  been  advanced; 
the  room  in  which  he  sat  was  the  wooden  horse  within 
the  walls  of  Troy;  the  men  about  him,  the  dragons'  teeth 
sowed  in  Northern  soil.  The  "Knights  of  Liberty"  were 
in  direct  communication  with  the  Confederate  authori 
ties  in  Richmond;  branch  organizations  of  more  or  less 
strength  were  scattered  throughout  Maryland;  in  Balti 
more  were  hidden  six  thousand  stands  of  arms,  which,  at 
the  signal,  would  be  put  in  the  hands  of  ten  thousand 
men  of  Maryland,  who  would  sweep  down  on  Washington 
from  the  north  as  the  Confederate  army  advanced  upon 
it  from  the  south;  all  that  was  needed  was  the  landing 
of  a  Southern  army  on  the  Maryland  shore.  Such  were 
the  statements  of  the  Knights,  and  such  their  plans. 
Webster  attended  the  meetings  for  several  weeks,  and 
became  known  as  an  impassioned  speaker  who  was  eagerly 
listened  to.  He  was  able  to  work  several  of  the  Secret 
Service  agents  into  the  league  by  directing  them  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  several  of  the  members  whom  Webster 

272 


TIMOTHY   WEBSTER 

had  marked  as  being  less  shrewd  than  the  others  and 
more  liable  to  vouch  for  new-comers ;  when  his  men  had  so 
established  themselves  in  the  society  as  to  be  accepted, 
in  their  regular  turn,  as  doorkeepers  of  the  outer  door, 
Webster's  plans  were  complete.  On  the  night  when 
these  men  were  standing  guard,  Webster  made  an  address ; 
the  room  was  crowded;  the  speech  grew  more  and  more 
flamboyant,  until  the  peroration  ended  with  the  shouted 
words  " — the  smoking  ruins  of  the  city  of  Washington!" 
It  was  the  cue ;  the  room  was  instantly  filled  with  Federal 
soldiers.  There  was  no  resistance — only  a  tumult  of 
cries  and  a  scurrying  about  in  the  trap.  The  "Knights 
of  Liberty"  as  an  organization  was  destroyed. 

The  months  passed  swiftly;  the  summer  was  gone  and 
the  autumn  was  midway  to  its  close  before  Timothy 
Webster  entered  Richmond  for  the  first  time;  he  had  left 
Baltimore  for  Richmond  almost  immediately  after  the 
betrayal  of  the  "Knights  of  Liberty";  his  friends — those 
who  had  not  been  imprisoned — in  the  belief  that  he  was 
fleeing  to  escape  Federal  arrest,  aided  him  to  the  utmost 
of  their  ability.  When  he  ran  the  blockade  of  Union 
gunboats  and  patrols  in  the  Potomac,  he  carried  a  heavy 
mail  with  him  into  Virginia — mail  from  which  the  fangs 
had  been  extracted  in  the  office  of  the  chief  of  the  Secret 
Service.  The  results  of  this  trip  are  embodied  in  a  state 
ment  by  Allan  Pinkerton: 


This  first  visit  of  Timothy  Webster  to  Richmond  was  highly  success 
ful.  Not  only  had  he  made  many  friends  in  that  city,  who  would  be 
of  service  to  him  on  subsequent  trips,  but  the  information  he  derived 
was  exceedingly  valuable.  He  was  able  to  report  very  correctly  the 
number  and  strength  around  the  rebel  capital,  to  estimate  the  number 
of  troops  and  their  sources  of  supplies,  and  also  the  forts  between  that 
18  273 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

city  and  Manassas  Junction,  and  his  notes  of  the  topography  of  the 
country  were  of  the  greatest  value. 

Four  times  he  made  the  trip  from  Baltimore  to  Rich 
mond.  He  never  made  use  of  the  Federal  aid  which  was 
at  his  command,  but  he  risked  death  from  Union  guns 
as  surely  as  did  any  Confederate  blockade-runner.  In 
Baltimore  he  was  looked  upon  as  a  hero ;  in  Richmond,  as  a 
valued  employee  of  the  Confederate  War  Department; 
for,  after  his  second  trip  there,  he  was  employed  by  Judah 
P.  Benjamin,  Secretary  of  War,  to  carry  despatches  and 
the  "underground  mail,"  and  to  obtain  information  in 
Washington  and  Baltimore;  on  one  occasion  he  received 
the  personal  thanks  of  the  "great  Secretary  of  the  Con 
federacy."  The  passes  furnished  to  Webster  by  the 
Confederate  War  Department  enabled  him  to  go  wherever 
he  wished,  and  he  made  a  long  journey  into  Kentucky 
and  Tennessee.  There  seemed  to  be  no  limit  to  his  au 
dacity,  no  measure  to  his  success. 

Once  only — until  at  the  very  last — was  he  in  imminent 
danger  of  arrest.  In  the  fortifications  of  Richmond  he 
met  Zigler  face  to  face — Zigler,  whom  he  had  struck 
and  to  whom  he  had  given  the  lie  and  discredited  in 
Baltimore ;  now,  the  spy  met  him,  a  Confederate  lieutenant 
at  his  post.  Both  men  stood  looking  at  each  other,  their 
hands  on  their  revolvers. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  Webster?"  Zigler  slowly 
asked. 

"I  am  here  to  deliver  a  letter  from  his  father  to  your 
friend  John  Bowen;  as  you  probably  know,  he  is  ill  of 
fever  at  Manassas,"  Webster  said,  pleasantly. 

"Let  me  see  the  letter." 

As  he  returned  the  letter,  Zigler  held  out  his  hand. 

274 


TIMOTHY    WEBSTER 

"Webster,"  he  said,  "I  once  thought  you  were  a  spy:  I 
was  wrong." 

Webster  heartily  grasped  his  hand;  he  used  Zigler  as 
he  would  use  an  information  bureau,  and  laughed  as  he 
went  away. 

It  was  the  same  wherever  he  went,  whatever  he  did — 
all  things  worked  for  his  advantage;  unsought  informa 
tion,  invaluable  to  the  Union,  came  to  him  at  least-ex 
pected  moments;  he  had  only  to  stretch  out  his  hand  to 
take  it.  A  surgeon  deserting  from  the  Union  army  became 
his  companion  in  an  effort  to  cross  into  Virginia.  The 
landlord  of  the  hotel  at  Leonardtown,  Maryland,  to  whom 
Webster  was  well  known,  urged  him  to  help  the  surgeon  in 
every  way,  for — "He  is  carrying  letters  to  our  War  De 
partment!"  The  letters  never  got  any  nearer  to  Rich 
mond;  in  fact,  next  day  they  went  the  other  direction — 
to  Washington.  In  Leonardtown  there  was  stationed 
another  member  of  the  Secret  Service,  John  Scobel — a 
negro.  That  evening  as  Webster  chatted  with  the  land 
lord — establishing  a  solid  alibi — the  doctor,  strolling 
about  in  the  dusk,  was  seized  from  behind  and  robbed; 
he  staggered  back  to  the  hotel  in  terrible  distress  and 
excitement. 

"But,"  said  Webster,  soothingly,  "you  can  doubtless 
give  a  verbal  summary  of  what  was  in  your  papers?" 

"They  were  sealed,"  the  surgeon  groaned.  "I  know 
no  more  of  the  contents  than  you  do."  Thus,  Secretary 
Benjamin  forever  missed  some  information  which  would 
have  been  extremely  useful  had  it  reached  him.  The 
surgeon  and  Webster,  who  still  proffered  consolation, 
proceeded  arm  in  arm  to  Richmond. 

In  finding  a  trusty  messenger  to  carry  the  stolen 

275 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

letters  to  Washington,  Webster  met  with  one  of  the 
strangest  experiences  of  his  career.  At  midnight  he  had 
slipped  away  from  the  hotel  and  had  joined  his  negro  spy, 
Scobel,  who  could  not  be  spared  from  his  own  work  in 
Leonardtown  to  deliver  the  papers.  Together  they  passed 
out  of  the  sleeping  town  and  into  the  dark  fields;  at  a 
ruinous  house,  with  boarded  windows  and  sagging  roof, 
they  stopped  and  knocked  softly;  Scobel's  whispered 
password  admitted  them,  and  they  entered.  The  stair 
case  was  gone,  but  a  rope  ladder  was  let  down  to  them; 
the  room  to  which  they  climbed  covered  the  entire  second 
story;  the  only  light  came  from  a  lantern  which  stood 
on  a  barrel  draped  with  an  American  flag.  They  carefully 
picked  a  way  between  huddled  figures, — negroes. 

Webster  could  see  those  seated  close  about  the  lantern 
— the  rest  merged  into  the  gloomy  shadows  until  only  a 
rolling  eyeball  or  a  slight  movement  showed  that  the 
room  was  filled  with  men,  silent,  watchful  men,  seated 
row  after  row  upon  the  floor.  It  was  a  meeting  of  one 
of  the  branches  of  the  " Loyal  League" — the  secret 
organization  of  slaves  banded  together  against  the  Con 
federacy.  Reports  were  made  by  those  who  had  had 
commissions  assigned  them  or  who  had  visited  other  lodges 
of  the  League;  then  Webster  was  called  on  for  an  address. 
Here  at  last  he  might  be  eloquent  for,  instead  of  against, 
the  Flag,  and  his  low-spoken,  burning  words  roused  the 
emotional  negroes  to  an  intense  pitch  of  excitement; 
they  gathered  about  him,  each  trying  to  catch  his  hand — 
some  weeping,  some  calling  on  God  to  bless  the  work  of 
this  man  who  fought  for  them  and  for  the  Union.  For 
two  hours  the  meeting  continued,  then  broke  up  in  order 
that  those  who  had  come  from  miles  away  might  steal 

276 


TIMOTHY    WEBSTER 

back  to  their  quarters  before  dawn.  The  president  of 
the  League  took_the  stolen  papers  and  carried  them  safely 
to  Washington. 

So  perilous  was  Webster's  position,  even  from  the  very 
beginning  of  his  work,  that,  for  his  greater  safety,  he  was 
known  to  but  few  of  his  fellow-operatives.  Thus  it  hap 
pened  that  in  Baltimore,  after  his  return  from  his  first 
Richmond  trip,  he  was  arrested  as  a  spy — as  a  Confederate 
spy — by  a  Federal  agent ;  Webster  was  in  a  cell  for  a  day 
and  a  night  before  he  could  get  word  to  Pinkerton  to 
order  his  release;  when  the  order  came  it  was  not  for  a 
release,  but  for  an  escape.  To  avoid  suspicion  Webster 
was  permitted  to  make  a  sensational  break  from  the  wagon 
in  which  he  was  being  driven  ostensibly  to  Fort  McHenry; 
there  was  a  mock  pursuit,  and  at  midnight  he  crept  to 
the  home  of  one  of  his  Confederate  friends  and  begged 
shelter  from  the  Yankees.  To  his  friends  he  was  as  one 
returned  from  the  dead;  they  feasted  and  f£ted  him  in 
secret,  and  kept  him  hidden  until  he  could  make  his 
"escape"  to  Richmond. 

The  accounts  of  his  capture  and  escape  as  printed  in 
the  Baltimore  American  and  the  Gazette  of  November  22, 
1 86 1,  must  have  given  Timothy  huge  amusement. 

Christmas  morning  Webster  left  Washington  for  his 
third  journey  to  Richmond.  He  had  climbed  the  hill  of 
Success,  had  passed,  unwitting,  over  the  crest,  and  now 
commenced  the  journey  down  the  side  upon  which  rested 
the  shadow. 

At  Leonardtown,  Maryland,  his  old  starting-point,  he 
was  met  by  bad  news;  his  usual  route  across  the  Potomac 
had  been  discovered  by  the  Federals,  and  was  watched. 
But  his  stanch  friend,  landlord  Moore,  assured  him 

277 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

that  all  was  not  yet  lost — a  new  route  had  been  developed ; 
only  in  return  for  its  being  shown  him  he  must  escort 
to  Richmond  the  families  of  two  Confederate  officers, 
that  had  been  intrusted  to  the  care  of  the  worthy  land 
lord  of  Leonardtown. 

That  night,  after  a  hard  ride,  the  little  party — Webster, 
two  ladies,  three  young  children,  and  the  boatman — put 
out  from  the  swamps  and  thickets  of  Cobb  Neck  in  an  open 
boat  in  the  attempt  to  cross  the  Potomac.  The  clear, 
frosty  weather  had  come  to  an  end;  all  afternoon  the 
clouds  had  been  banking  over  Virginia,  and  a  gusty  wind 
had  moaned  in  the  pines  and  scrub-oak  thickets;  the 
wind  had  risen  with  the  coming  of  night,  and  now,  as 
the  little  craft  caught  its  full  force,  it  rolled  and  pitched 
wildly.  The  women,  mute  with  terror,  clung  to  the  wailing 
children  and  cowered  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  Midway 
across,  the  boatman  shouted  that  the  storm  was  coming. 
Webster  flung  a  tarpaulin  over  the  women  and  children, 
and  then  gave  aid  to  the  managing  of  the  sail;  the  rain 
and  sleet  cut  and  blinded  like  salt;  the  wind  veered  and 
rushed  the  boat  to  the  land.  All  but  helpless  in  such  a 
wind,  and  bewildered  by  the  lashing  rain,  the  boatman 
lost  his  bearings  and  drove  full  upon  a  sand-bar  within  a 
hundred  feet  of  shore.  The  boatman  had  all  he  could 
do  to  save  his  little  craft  from  being  swamped  with  all 
on  board,  and  Webster  caught  two  of  the  children  in 
his  arms,  leaped  overboard,  and  struggled  ashore  with 
them;  the  water  was  only  waist-deep,  but  it  was  icy  cold. 
Four  times  he  made  the  trip  from  boat  to  shore;  then, 
chilled  through,  and  shivering  so  that  he  scarce  could 
walk,  he  led  his  wretched  party  toward  a  distant  light. 
For  more  than  a  mile  they  toiled  through  the  underbrush 

278 


TIMOTHY   WEBSTER 

and  over  the  rough,  soggy  ground,  and  at  last,  utterly 
exhausted,  reached  an  old  negro's  two-room  cabin.  They 
passed  a  miserable  night — the  women  and  children  in 
the  only  bed;  Webster,  wrapped  in  a  tattered  blanket, 
on  the  floor  before  the  fire.  Half  unconscious  of  what 
he  did,  he  picked  up  a  small  packet  wrapped  in  oiled 
silk;  it  had  evidently  been  dropped  by  one  of  the  ladies 
when  she  removed  part  of  her  wet  clothing;  he  noted 
dully  that  it  was  addressed  to  Secretary  Benjamin,  and 
he  thrust  the  packet  into  a  slit  in  his  coat  lining. 

At  Fredericksburg,  which  they  reached  next  day  by 
steamer,  Webster  could  go  no  farther;  he  was  seized 
with  inflammatory  rheumatism,  and  was  ill  for  days; 
the  women  heartlessly  left  him  behind — the  women 
whose  lives  he  had  saved,  virtually  at  the  cost  of  his 
own.  It  seems  no  more  than  just  that  he  should  have 
found  their  packet  of  papers — it  was  little  enough  reward, 
though  it  gave  him  the  opportunity  to  strike  a  stout 
blow  for  the  Union;  for  the  packet  contained  complete 
maps  of  the  country  surrounding  Washington,  an  accurate 
statement  of  the  number  and  location  of  the  Federal 
troops,  and  the  probable  plans  of  the  spring  campaign- 
indubitable  evidence  that  some  Federal  officer  had  gone 
wrong.  When  Allan  Pinkerton  received  the  papers,  he 
was  able,  by  identifying  the  writing,  to  arrest  the  author 
— a  clerk  in  the  office  of  the  Provost- Marshal  of  Washing 
ton — who  narrowly  escaped  being  hanged. 

Webster  at  last  proceeded  to  Richmond,  and,  though 
still  suffering  from  rheumatism,  indomitably  continued 
from  there  his  journey  south. 

By  the  middle  of  January  he  was  back  in  Washington 
with  a  large  mail,  which  included  letters  and  despatches 

279 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

from  Secretary  Benjamin,  General  Winder,  and  others 
high  in  the  Confederacy;  also  he  brought  reports  of  con 
ditions,  and  military  information,  from  as  far  south  as 
Nashville. 

He  was  still  physically  unfit  for  duty,  but  at  once  pre 
pared  to  return  to  Richmond  on  what  was  to  be  his  last 
journey.  This  time  he  did  not  go  alone;  he  had  need 
of  Hattie  Lewis,  a  young  woman  member  of  the  Secret 
Service;  she  had  already  been  in  Richmond  several  times, 
and  had  been  of  help  to  Timothy  on  one  of  his  previous 
visits.  Webster,  when  he  asked  that  Hattie  Lewis  might 
accompany  him,  received  his  chief's  ready  assent,  and 
he  and  the  girl  crossed  the  Potomac  together — that 
much  ''Major  Allen"  was  able  to  trace  weeks  later; 
for,  from  the  time  they  crossed  the  river,  Timothy 
Webster  and  Hattie  Lewis  had  disappeared  completely. 

The  days  passed  into  weeks,  and  still  no  tidings. 

My  anxiety  [Mr.  Pinkerton  writes]  was  equally  shared  by  Gen 
eral  McClellan,  with  whom  Webster  was  a  great  favorite,  and  who 
placed  the  utmost  reliance  on  his  reports.  One  evening,  early  in 
February,  the  General  called  on  me,  and  advised  the  sending  of  one 
messenger,  or  two,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  hunting  up  Webster,  or 
finding  some  trace  of  him. 

Pryce  Lewis  and  John  Scully,  old  members  of  the 
Chicago  force,  were  chosen;  they  knew  Webster  well, 
and  they  were  experienced  spies,  men  who  had  already 
proved  their  worth  in  the  service.  Yet  in  this  case  a 
worse  choice  could  not  have  been  made;  for  these  men 
had  been  used  in  the  early  days  of  the  war  to  search 
the  houses  of  families  suspected  of  disloyalty  to  the 
government;  several  of  these  families  had  been  required 
by  the  authorities  to  leave  Washington,  and  had  been 

280 


TIMOTHY    WEBSTER 

transported  South;  this  was  the  flaw  in  the  armor  of 
Scully  and  Lewis.  Their  particular  danger  was  appreci 
ated  by  their  chief,  who  questioned  deserters,  prisoners, 
and  contrabands  from  Richmond  regarding  these  ex 
pelled  families;  he  learned  that  the  Morton  family  of 
Florida  had  returned  to  that  State,  and  the  Phillipses  had 
left  Richmond  for  South  Carolina.  This  cleared  the 
way  for  Lewis  and  Scully;  they  safely  crossed  into  Vir 
ginia;  then  they,  too,  disappeared.  It  was  two  months 
after  Webster  had  left  Washington  before  Allan  Pinkerton 
heard  of  any  of  his  agents  again. 

Lewis  and  Scully  had  little  difficulty  in  reaching  Rich 
mond,  and  still  less  in  finding  Webster's  whereabouts. 
Elated  by  the  ease  with  which  they  had  found  him,  the 
two,  without  waiting  to  communicate  secretly  with  Web 
ster,  hurried  to  the  Monumental  Hotel,  and  were  shown 
to  his  room.  They  found  him  in  bed,  the  mere  shadow 
of  his  former  self,  weak  and  emaciated,  and  still  suffering 
intensely  from  rheumatism — still  making  payment  for  his 
rescue  of  helpless  women  and  children.  Let  it  be  remem 
bered  that  the  presence  of  Scully  and  Lewis  in.  Richmond 
had  been  brought  about  thereby. 

Hattie  Lewis,  who  posed  as  Webster's  sister,  and  who 
had  nursed  him  during  his  entire  illness,  sat  sewing  by 
the  window,  and  at  his  bedside  was  one  of  his  stanch 
Richmond  friends,  come  to  cheer  the  invalid.  The  two 
Secret  Service  men,  in  the  presence  of  the  unsuspecting 
Confederate,  were  greeted  formally — as  mere  acquaint 
ances;  they  gave  Webster  a  letter  written  by  Allan 
Pinkerton — a  letter  purporting  to  come  from  one  of  Web 
ster's  Baltimore  friends,  warning  him  to  return  by  another 
route,  as  the  Yankees  were  watching  his  old  one  to  cap- 

281 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

ture  him.  Webster  read  the  letter  and  passed  it  to  his 
friend  Pierce.  "I'm  being  well  taken  care  of,  you  see," 
he  said,  lightly.  But  he  was  secretly  dismayed  at  the 
coming  of  his  fellow-spies,  and  they,  intuitively  feeling 
that  they  had  in  some  way  run  counter  to  his  plans,  were 
ill  at  ease  and  constrained  in  manner;  the  call  was  short 
and  cold,  and  they  made  the  additional  mistake  of  leaving 
before  Pierce  did,  thus  giving  Webster  no  chance  to 
warn  them  to  keep  away. 

With  rare  fatuity  they  returned  next  morning,  and 
again  had  the  misfortune  to  find  a  Confederate  visitor, 
no  less  than  an  officer  from  the  provost-marshal's  office, 
Captain  McCubbin,  a  man  whose  friendship  the  politic 
Webster  had  diligently  cultivated  and  entirely  won.  The 
interview  was  more  pleasant  than  that  of  the  previous 
day.  McCubbin  was  a  friendly  soul  and  a  good  talker; 
it  was  not  until  he  was  leaving  that  he  inquired  pleasantly 
whether  they  had  reported  themselves  to  the  office  of 
the  provost-marshal.  They  had  not — they  had  been 
examined  by  Major  Beale  at  the  Potomac,  and  their 
passports  having  been  approved,  they  had  not  thought 
it  necessary,  they  said.  It  was  most  necessary,  McCubbin 
told  them — but  any  time  within  a  day  or  two  would  do. 
McCubbin  left,  and  Webster  urged  them  to  see  the 
provost-marshal,  obtain  his  permit,  and  at  once  leave 
Richmond. 

They  called  next  day  at  the  office  of  General  Winder, 
commander  of  the  city  of  Richmond;  his  examination 
was  a  searching  one,  as  was  to  be  expected,  but  his  man 
ner  pleasant  and  courteous;  their  story  was  thoroughly 
prepared,  and  they  answered  his  questions  readily;  the 
General  expressed  himself  entirely  satisfied,  shook  hands 

282 


TIMOTHY   WEBSTER 

with  them,  and  wished  them  good  day.  Greatly  pleased, 
they  hastened  to  relieve  Webster's  anxiety  by  telling  him 
of  their  success,  and  to  bid  him  good-by.  Hardly  were 
they  seated,  when  an  officer — who  had  undoubtedly  fol 
lowed  them  from  General  Winder's  office — called  to  ques 
tion  them  regarding  some  trivial  point  in  their  examina 
tion.  When  the  man  had  gone  Webster  struggled  to  a 
sitting  posture.  "Leave  the  city!  Leave  the  city!"  he 
cried.  "The  coming  of  that  man  means  that  you  are  cer 
tainly  suspected!" 

They  tried  to  reassure  him,  dwelling  on  their  interview 
with  Winder;  but  while  they  spoke,  the  door  opened  and 
one  of  the  provost's  detectives  entered,  accompanied  by 
Chase  Morton,  whose  home  in  Washington  had  been 
searched  by  Lewis  and  Scully.  They  had  dreamed  of 
danger,  they  awoke — and  found  their  feet  on  the  trap 
of  the  gallows;  in  that  instant  three  men  and  a  woman 
felt  the  rope  about  their  necks. 

Scully  completely  lost  his  wits;  without  a  word  he  rose 
and  walked  out  of  the  open  door;  Lewis  stolidly  faced  an 
introduction  and  joined  in  commonplaces  of  the  talk, 
until  presently  he  said  good-by  to  Webster  and  left  the 
room. 

In  the  hall  he  was  joined  by  Scully,  who  had  in  a 
measure  recovered  his  composure;  as  they  were  about  to 
descend  the  stairs  the  Confederate  detective  stepped  out 
of  Webster's  room  and  quietly  placed  them  under  arrest; 
other  detectives,  by  whom  the  house  had  been  sur 
rounded,  closed  about  them  and  they  were  escorted  to 
General  Winder's  office.  There  young  Morton  with  posi- 
tiveness  identified  them  as  Federal  Secret  Service  agents, 
and  they  were  sent  immediately  to  Henrico  Jail ;  for  days 

283 


ON    HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

they  lay  there,  apparently  forgotten;  then  Scully  was 
taken  away,  and  he  did  not  return. 

Lewis,  half  crazed  by  the  uncertainty  of  Scully's  fate, 
and  his  own  ultimate  fate,  joined  with  his  fellow-prisoners 
in  a  mad  plan  to  break  from  the  poorly  guarded  jail; 
most  of  them  escaped  into  the  country,  where  they  wan 
dered  for  several  days,  suffering  horribly  in  the  half- 
frozen  swamps  of  the  Chickahominy ;  in  little  groups 
they  were  recaptured — Lewis  and  three  companions  last 
of  all — brought  back  to  the  city,  placed  in  solitary  con 
finement,  and  heavily  ironed.  Two  days  later  Lewis  was 
led  to  trial. 

Webster,  not  daring  to  make  inquiries,  knew  abso 
lutely  nothing  of  his  two  friends  from  the  time  that  the 
detectives  had  followed  Lewis  and  Scully  out  of  the 
room,  until,  days  afterward,  he  read  in  a  newspaper  that 
they  had  been  arrested  and  were  accused  of  being  Federal 
spies;  then  came  an  order  from  the  provost-marshal,  de 
manding  the  letter  which  had  been  brought  to  him  by 
the  men.  Scully  was  the  first  to  be  placed  on  trial,  and 
Webster  was  called  on  to  testify;  but  Webster  was  too 
ill  to  be  moved,  and  the  court  adjourned  to  his  bedside 
to  take  his  evidence.  He  had  known  the  men  slightly 
since  April,  1861,  in  Baltimore,  he  testified;  there  they 
were  regarded  as  earnest  secessionists;  he  knew  nothing 
of  their  being  connected  with  the  United  States  govern 
ment  in  any  way,  knew  nothing  further  than  that  they 
had  unexpectedly  appeared  in  Richmond  with  the  letter; 
that  was  all.  When  the  members  of  the  court  had  gone, 
Webster  fainted. 

The  positive  identification  of  the  two  prisoners  by  mem 
bers  of  the  Morton  family  convicted  them;  Webster,  a 

284 


TIMOTHY    WEBSTER 

few  days  later,  read  that  his  friends  had  been  sentenced 
to  be  hanged  within  one  week  from  the  passing  of  sentence. 
His  own  position  had  been  compromised,  and  some  of  his 
friends  began  to  fall  away ;  but  no  charge  was  made  against 
him,  and  it  seemed  that  he  was  to  escape. 

After  sentence  was  passed,  Lewis  and  Scully  were  con 
fined  in  Castle  Godwin,  in  separate  cells;  they  had  not 
seen  each  other  since  they  had  been  parted  in  Henrico 
Jail;  and  Scully,  feigning  serious  illness,  pleaded  to  be 
allowed  to  see  his  comrade.  Lewis  was  brought  to  him. 
The  condemned  men  were  left  alone,  and  presently 
Scully,  with  some  hesitation,  said  that  he  had  sent  for  a 
priest,  that,  as  a  Catholic,  he  must  confess  and  receive 
absolution  before  he  died.  Lewis  took  instant  alarm. 
Would  Webster's  name  have  to  be  mentioned,  he  asked. 
Scully  did  not  know;  he  grew  sullen  and  was  greatly 
disturbed. 

Pryce  Lewis  pleaded  with  him.  "Do  not  speak  of 
Webster,  John!"  he  begged. 

"I  tell  you  I  do  not  know  what  I  will  have  to  say," 
Scully  answered,  irritably.  And  while  they  still  argued, 
the  priest  came  and  Scully  followed  him  away.  Lewis 
was  not  taken  back  to  his  own  cell  for  several  hours. 
As  at  last  he  was  being  hurried  through  the  halls  Lewis 
passed  detectives  bringing  in  two  prisoners — a  man  and 
a  woman.  In  the  dim  light  of  the  lanterns,  with  their 
shifting  shadows,  he  could  not  be  sure — could  only  be  afraid ; 
was  it  Webster  and  Hattie  Lewis  ?  What  had  Scully  done  ? 

Allan  Pinkerton — "Major  Allen" — with  the  Army  of 
the  Potomac,  was  before  Yorktown  on  the  Peninsula; 
in  the  midst  of  a  hard  campaign  he  scarcely  for  an  hour 

285 


ON   HAZARDOUS    SERVICE 

forgot  his  missing  men,  but  all  his  inquiries  failed,  until 
in  a  captured  Richmond  paper  he  read  that  the  Yankee 
spies,  Scully  and  Lewis,  were  sentenced  to  be  hanged. 
Then,  before  he  could  make  a  move  in  their  behalf,  came 
the  more  bitter  news  that  they  were  respited  for  having 
implicated  the  chief  spy  of  them  all — Timothy  Webster. 
Immediately  Mr.  Pinkerton,  accompanied  by  Colonel 
Key  of  General  McClellan's  staff,  hurried  to  Washington. 

Mr.  Lincoln  was  readily  seen,  and  he,  too,  filled  with  sympathy  for 
the  unfortunate  man,  promised  to  call  a  special  session  of  the  Cabinet 
to  consider  the  case  that  evening.  ...  In  the  evening  the  Cabinet  was 
convened,  and  after  a  full  discussion  of  the  matter  it  was  decided  that 
the  only  thing  that  could  be  done  was  to  authorize  the  Secretary  of 
War  to  communicate  with  the  rebel  authorities  on  the  subject.  He  was 
directed  to  authorize  General  Wool  to  send  by  flag-of -truce  boat,  or 
by  telegraph,  a  message  to  Jefferson  Davis,  representing  that  the  course 
pursued  by  the  Federal  government  toward  rebel  spies  had  heretofore 
been  lenient  and  forbearing;  that  in  many  cases  such  persons  had  been 
released  after  a  short  confinement,  and  that  in  no  instance  had  any  one 
so  charged  been  tried  for  his  life  or  sentenced  to  death.  The  message 
concluded  with  the  decided  intimation  that  if  the  Confederate  govern 
ment  proceeded  to  carry  their  sentence  of  death  into  execution,  the 
Federal  government  would  initiate  a  system  of  retaliation  which  would 
amply  revenge  the  death  of  the  men  now  held. 

Secretary  Stanton  expressed  in  strong  terms  his  willingness  to  assist 
Webster  to  the  extent  of  the  resources  of  the  government,  but  he  was 
but  little  disposed  to  assist  the  others,  who  had  betrayed  their  com 
panion  to  save  their  own  lives. 

Let  this  terrible  story  be  brought  swiftly  to  its  more 
terrible  end. 

The  trial  of  Timothy  Webster,  civilian  spy,  was  imme 
diately  begun  by  a  civil  court;  the  man  was  still  so  sick 
that  he  could  not  be  moved,  and  his  trial  was  at  first 
held  in  the  prison.  From  the  beginning  there  was  no 
hope,  and  he  had  none;  yet  instead  of  sinking  he  struggled 

286 


TIMOTHY   WEBSTER 

up,  grew  physically  stronger,  until  able  to  take  his  place 
at  the  bar.  His  bearing  made  a  wonderful  impression 
upon  all;  he  became  magnificent  in  his  calm  dignity  and 
his  quiet,  simple  fearlessness.  He  was  what  he  was, 
and  had  done  that  which  he  had  done,  for  a  mighty  prin 
ciple,  and  now  he  was  given  strength  greater  than  his 
own  to  bear  him  up  until  the  end. 

So  different  from  the  swift,  decisive — thereby  more 
merciful — Court-Martial,  this  trial  "by  process  of  law" 
dragged  its  weary  length  for  three  weeks;  witness  after 
witness  was  examined;  Lewis  and  Scully  on  the  stand 
faced  their  comrade,  and  by  their  testimony — wrung 
from  them  and  given  in  anguish — he  was  hanged.  And, 
though  he  had  able  lawyers  who  fought  an  able  fight 
for  him,  and  though  the  Federal  government  convened 
a  special  session  of  its  Cabinet  and  threatened  bitter  re 
prisals,  and  though  the  woman  who  loved  him — Hattie 
Lewis — besought  the  wife  of  the  President  of  the  Con 
federacy  to  intercede  for  him,  yet  Timothy  Webster, 
spy,  was  justly  convicted  and  justly  hanged. 

On  April  2pth,  1862,  surrounded  by  a  great  concourse  of 
soldiers  and  citizens  at  Camp  Lee — the  old  Fair  Grounds 
of  Richmond — the  first  spy  of  the  Rebellion  was  hanged. 

"  .  .  .  The  knot  came  undone  .  .  .  and  they  carried 
him  back  upon  the  scaffold;  as  he  stood  swaying  on  the 
trap  for  the  second  time,  he  cried,  from  under  the  black 
hood,  'I  suffer  a  double  death!'  " 

Hattie  Lewis  was  imprisoned  for  a  year,  Lewis  and 
Scully  for  twenty-two  months,  and  were  then  set  free. 

THE     END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


INTER 


LOAN 

0;^  MONTH  AFT-. 
fyjQj^l  RfcKIPWARli; 


JUL  1  4  1959 


23Nov'62PYX 


'67  -i2  AM 


LOAN  DEPT 


(C8481slO)476B 


YC  28103 


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